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Stolen Waters. 



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BY 



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CELIA E. GARDNER. 
•I 



' Stolen waters are sweet." 

Pboverbs, IX. 17, 








^y'~ yv:-on\^" 



NEW YORK: 

G. /F". Carleton ^ Co,y Publishers, 

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. 
M.DCCC.LXXI. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Stereotyped at the 

WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSK, 

Corner Avenue A and Eighth Street, 

New York. 



TO ONE 

WHO HAS PROVED 

AT ALL TIMES THAT HE IS 

THE DEAREST, THE NOBLEST, THE TRUEST, 

WITH TILE GRATITUDE, LOVE, AlsT) ESTEEM 
OP A HEART THAT HAS YET KEVER lOs^OWK SWEETER DREAMS 
TH.'USf THOSE HE HAS FILLED, AKD WHOSE PRAYER IS, WHEN DEATH 
SHALL HAVE STILLED OUR HEARTS' CURRENT WITH HIS ICY BREATH, 
WE MAY STAND WITH EACH OTHER BEFORE THE WHITE THRONE, 
OP HIM UNTO WHOM ALL HEART-SECRETS ARE KNOWN, 
WHO, TE^SIPTED IN ALL POINTS AS WE ARE, LOOKS DOWN 
WITH COMPASSION DIVINE, AS HE STUDS OUR BRIGHT CROWNS 
WITH A GEM FOR EACH CROSS WE ENDURE, WHILE WE WAIT 
FOR THE SUMMONS THAT COMETH TO ALL, SOON OR LATE, 
THUS GRATEFUL, AND HOPEFUL, I THIS WORK TO THEE 
CONSECRATE I PROUD TO SIGN MYSELF 

THINE, 

0. E. G. 

1871. 



PRELUDE. 



You who never have loved — you who never were tried, 
Lay this volume, without a perusal, aside ! 
Should you read it, you'd find much to shock preconceived 
Ideas of what should and what should not be. 
You would find no perfection of character here ; 
Only weak human nature — the hopes and the fears 
Of a heart, if iindisciplined, loving and true ; 
Temptations resisted, and yielded unto ; 
And the tale of a love far beyond estimation, 
All potent, in doubt or in realization. 

I claim for my heroine^ nothing ! except 

Her humanity. Yet from the reader expect 

The remembrance that this is a Journal, wherein 

She confides all her secrets ; some which would have been 

Most carefuUy, jealously guarded, 'tis plaia, 

From the world. For my hero^ your honor ^ I claim. 

For my if^m^k^ ask that your criticism be mild, 

Eecollecting, in authorship, I'm but a child. 



Sev'ral similar cases to this having come 
Under my observation, when there has been done 
By the world much injustice to those who have proved 
In the end, although human, both earnest and true, 
Three things it has been my endeavor to show ; 



Vlll 



PRELUDE. 



And lest I have failed in portraying them so 

That they may be discerned, — like an artist I know, 

Who writes o'er the landscape he paints, " These are trees," 

So I o'er my work write the points, which are these : — 

First ! That no one can tell what they'll do 'tiU they're tried, 
Must in like circumstances be placed to decide. 
That those the most strong in asserting their own 
Immaculateness are most often the ones, 
Not alone to be tried in that special respect. 
But to yield to the offered temptation when met. 

Second! That it is p6>ssi We, for e'en a love 
That's forbidden — impassioned and earnest above 
All expression, to be not alone true but pure. 
And that love without marriage not always ensures 
Criminality for those who to it succumb. 
And that a true love can but act upon one 
Beneficially, and a refiner become. 

And third ! That though conscience and principle may 
For a time be crushed down, in the end their fuU sway 
They'll resume, and accomplish what naught else could do. 
And with this prelude brief, I my work leave with you. 




STOLEN WATEES. 



PART PIRST. 



*' Sweet are stolen waters ! pleasant is the bread 
In secret eaten." 



" And thus, unnoticed and apart, 
And more by accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice, 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Were filled with it by night and day." 



POLLOCK. 



LONGFELLOW. 




Stolen Waters. 



lart ^ixnt. 



NEW YORK. 



JV^ovember 2dj 1862. 



SUNDAY. 



My dear little Journal ! so fresh, white, and new, 
I have seated myself for a short chat with you, 
And to tell you where I have been passing the eve, 
If you will but listen, and give me the leave. 
Annie called here to-night, and desired me to go 
To the new church but just dedicated ; and so 
I donned cloak and furs, hat and boots and went forth. 
'Twas cold, too ! the wind blew direct from the north, 
'Twas bvit a short distance, we soon reached the place. 
And passed in with devout hearts and reverent pace. 
'Twas lovely ! but I am too weary, to-night, 
To describe in detail all the music and light, 
Soft carpets, rich carving, the Organ so grand. 



12 STOLEN WATERS. 

The tablets containing our Lord's ten commands, 

And all that. But perhaps I may some other time 

Describe all to you, even to the bell's chime. 

To tell you the truth, my dear Journal, my thoughts 

In vain sought to rise above earth, as they ought. 

I seemed to be dreaming, or under a spell. 

And which one it was I can yet hardly tell ; 

For a mouth wreathed with smiles I could see but too near, 

And a voice full of melody burst on my ear ; 

For he sang as he smiled, and his dark, lustrous eyes, 

Seemed reading my soul ; and I found with surprise 

That my cheeks burned with blushes, my eyes sought the 

ground, 
The blood rushed through my veins with tumultuous bound, 
Ev'rything was forgotten — time also, and place ; 
I heard but one voice, and I saw but one face. 
This strange fascination continued complete 
Till the service was over, and I in the street. 
When the cool, bracing wind fanned my feverish cheek, 
Subdued its deep flush, and unnatural heat. 
And calmly the blood coursed once more thro' my veins. 
And I my own stoical self soon became. 
What was it affected me thus, there to-night ? 
I have heard people talking of " Love at first sight." 
Was it love for a stranger that sent such a thrill 
Through my frame, 'till my very heart seemed to stand still ? 
Was it love for a stranger ? No ! that cannot be ; 
We oft hear of such things, but who'd think it of me ? 
I, who have so many known — flirted so long. 
To yield now, to a voice I've heard only in song ? 
Think of my proud, high spiiit subdued by a smile, 
A glance from soft eyes. Call it consummate guile, 



STOLEN WATERS. 13 

Call it music's encliantment, the pressiii-e of light — 
Call it sorcery, witchcraft, or aught that you like, 
That so deejoly impressed me at service to-night. 
But donH say I'm in love with a man at first sight ; 
I hope I am not so susceptible, quite ! 



February Ibtk, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well, my father at length has engaged a nice pew 
In the handsome new church which is almost in view, 
And henceforth, I suppose, we shall worship within 
Those walls that were never polluted by sin. 
That beautiful temple, so rich, yet so plain. 
With large, Gothic windows through whose di'mond panes 
The softened light streams with subdued, mellow ray, 
O'er the worshippers therein assembled to pray ; 
The walls faintly tinted, but unadorned still 
By the chisel of sculptor or artist's fine skill ; 
The seats softly cushioned with green, and the floor 
With carpets like Nature's own verdure laid o'er, 
The pulpit of chestnut, green-carpeted stairs. 
Rich books, velvet cushions, and sofa, and chairs. 
Just below it the table, on which there is spread. 
On the first of each month the wine holy and bread, 
On service of silver ; and in the background 
Stands their beautiful organ, from which such sweet sounds 
Of melody float, you might fancy, almost. 
That you were surrounded by Heav'n's shining host, 



14: STOLEN WATERS. 

And think you were list'ning to harps of the blest, 
Whose strings by the hands of bright angels are pressed, 
So rich, so sublime, so mellifluous, sweet. 
Now far off, low and faint, and then nearer and deep, 
'Till its thunders arouse from its lethargic sleep 
My ravished, entranced soul. Then, at the right hand, 
Gothic tablets, engraved with oiir Lord's ten commands ; 
At the left is the choir ; a small, Gothic alcove, 
Its darkness dispelled by dim lights from above. 
While in the background, 'graved in letters of gold, 
Are extracts from the Psalms of King David of old. 
Our seat's near the choir — O ! I must not forget 
To tell you, my Journal, the choir's a quartette. 
Well ! in that lovely place we have worshipped to-day. 
Arose when they sang, bowed the head when they prayed. 
There I saw, too, a face I had seen once before. 
Heard the same voice, with melody sweet gushing o'er. 
Saw the lips, too, enwreathed with the same witching smile, 
The eyes, merry glances thrown downward the while. 
' But his glances and smiles were all powerless, to-day, 
I looked at him coldly, turned calmly away. 
My heart beat no faster, no flush dyed my cheek, 
But his voice ! — oh, it was, indeed, wondrously sweet. 
And I eagerly listened, as under a spell 
As each note O'a my ravished ear then rose and fell. 
The singers were all good, but he was sublime. 
But 'twas the soft witch'ry of music, this time : 
The charm which e'er dwells in harmonious sound. 
Not love for the man which now held me spell-bound. 
Indeed ! as to-day I looked into his eyes, 
I could not but think with a wondering surprise 
Of the spell he cast over me, when our eyes met 



STOLEN WATERS. 15 

A few weeks ago, for the first time ; and yet, 

It was passing strange what o'ercame me that night, 

Uliless 'twas the heat and the strong press of light. 

Whatever it was, I am firmly convinced 

lie had nothing at all to do with it ! And, since 

It was not what I feared that it might be, that night, 

I will have no more faith in this " love at first sight." 



March 1st, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

When I drew up the blind, somewhat early this morn, 
I found there had been quite a heavy snow-storm, 
And when it was church time, I hardly could tell 
If 'twas best to go out or to stay at home. Well ! 
Did not much like remaining within doors, all day, 
So I donned rubber-boots, and we started away ; 
And when we soon after arrived at the church 
Mr. Tenor was standing right there in the porch. 
His glances at me were quite earnest, and I 
Looked closely at liim, too, while passing him by. 
So you see, my dear Journal, I had a fair view 
Of this wonderful (?) man, and this fine singer, too. 
I suppose you would like a description of him, 
I have told you so much of him. Well ! to begin. 
He was not very formidable after all ! 
He is neither quite short, nor is he very tall. 
His shoulders are wide, and you'd feel you could rost 
Safe sheltered from harm on his broad, manly breast. 



STOLEN WATERS. 

Dark hair, soft, dark eyes, and a mouth passing sweet, 

Soft mustaches and whiskers shade both lip and cheek. 

Hands white and well -shaped, moderately small feet. 

You have now, my Journal, his picture complete. 

Now if this noble gentleman only just knew 

What a flatt'ring description I've given to you. 

Of his exquisite singing, his fine manly grace. 

His smiles and his glances, his form and his face, 

What v)ould he say to it ? But that ne'er will be ! 

} can say what I please, my dear Journal, to " thee," 

^ell you all of my secrets, and ne'er have a fear 

That you'll ever disclose aught that I whisper here 

But, dear me ! what a soft little goosey I am, 

To be thinking so much of a quite unknown man ! 

But I told you about him, upon that first night 

When I " fell in love (?)" with him, you know, at first sight j 

I mean, therefore, to tell you henceforth all I know 

Of him who's of late interested me so. 

But to tell you the truth, perhaps I've over-drawn 

My fair picture of him ; for a calm looker-on 

Might not, perhaps, call strictly handsome his face ; 

But his smile, and his grand, indescribable grace. 

Which once made me forgetful of both time and place, 

Are more charming by far than mere beauty of face. 



STOLEN WATERS. 17 

March 22^, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well ! another brief week has passed swiftly along, 
And another sweet Sabbath is now nearly gone. 
And to service of course I again went to-day — 
'Twould take strong inducements to keep me away, 
For a Sunday at home I can never endure — 
A stormy one even — and so I am sure 
There's nothing that scarcely could tempt me to. stay 
From church upon such a magnificent day 
As this one has been. It ivas lovely as one 
Could desire to behold ; for the glorious sun, 
In unrivalled splendor, shone all the day through ; 
The sky was one vast arch of unclouded blue ; 
Each twig, bush, and tree were a-glitter with ice. 
And the pavement as well, which was not quite so nice, 
For many unlucky pedestrians met 
A fall on the sidewalk so slipp'ry and wet. 
The new-fallen snow, with a pure, dazzling sheet 
Of white, covered tree-top, and house-top, and street ; 
And sleigh after sleigh-load dashed swiftly along. 
And before one could fairly behold them, were gone ; 
And the tinkle of bells on the listening ear. 
Fell with musical murmur so merry and clear. 
The whole scene was charming ! but soon we passed in 
From the splendor without to the beauty Avithin. 
Already, the organ's deep, exquisite notes. 
All through the vast edifice solemnly floats. 



18 STOLEN WATERS. 

The whole congregation is silent as death, 

And I listen entranced, and almost catch my breath, 

As the tones of the singers, so thrillingly sweet, 

Join the organ's, and render the charm quite complete. 

What, think you, cared I then that a bright smiling face 

Was beaming on me from the usual place, 

And a pair of soft eyes looking into my own ? 

I saw nothing, heard naught but the musical tones 

Of the voices I've learned to, of late, love so well, 

And that ever bewitch me more than I can tell. 

But when next they arose the enchantment was o'er, 

And I then could look into his fine face once more ; 

But he so intently gazed into my eyes, 

That, in spite of myself, I could feel the blood rise 

To my face, and I knew he had found he could call 

A warm flush to my cheek, notwithstanding, too, all 

My cold looks, and his glances indifTrently met. 

And the smiles that are haunting me, too, even yet. 



July 5th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well ! yesterday was the grand " Fourth of July," 
Our national holiday. Gertrude and I 
Went out to my brother's, and spent the whole day 
In the cool, verdant country, so quiet ; away 
From the heat of the city, the dust and the din 
Which prevails from the time that the " Fourth's " ushered in, 
By the booming salute in the sweet early morn, 
'Till the hour of midnight proclaims the day gone. 



STOLEN WATEE8. 19 

"We passed the day quietly, pleasantly, then 

At evening came back to the city again. 

I felt this A.M. just a little fatigued, 

But to church went as usual, my " Unknown " to see. 

I saw him^ and the smiles, too, that brightened his face, 

As I my seat took in the usual place. 

Oh, dear ! I would much like to know what's his name, 

But yet, what is the use ? 'Tis of course all the same, 

The gentleman nothing at all is to me, 

And what is more still, never will, or can be. 

I presume, did I know him quite intimately, 

I'd think no more of him than of others I see ; 

'Tis the myst'ry that charms me, and if that was o'er 

I'm convinced I should think of the man never more, 

I know 'tis a mere passing fancy, and yet 

It seems to be one I'm not like to forget, 

At least very soon, — while I sit in the seat 

Which I now do in church. 

'Twould be gladness complete, 
It sometimes seems to me, if I only could rest 
For one single moment upon his broad breast. 
Could but around me have the clasp of his arm, 
And know that he'd shield me from every harm. 
But what am I thinking of? How could I write 
Such words as these Pve written herein to-night ? 
Yet I read in a fine modern author, to-day, 
" There is not a true loomaii but what longs to lay 
Her head on the fond loving breust of a man. 
And see in his eyes the one look that he can 
Give to no one else in the whole world." And so, why, 
If the man truth was speaking, oh ! then, why should I, 



20 STOLEN WATERS. 

As I sit here this evening, in silence, alone, 

Hesitate to write what not an eye but my own 

Does now or will ever behold ? Why, I say, 

If that be the case, should I blush to obey 

The wise laws of nature, which prove me to be 

A true woman according to his theory ? 

But I'm weary, and sleepy as well ; and the light 

Flickers so that I scarcely can see now to write. 

The gas must be poor! — Well ! I'm thro' for to-night. 



August Ml, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

How swiftly, indeed, time does hasten along ! 
Two whole months of summer are already gone, 
The middle of August is now very near. 
And ere we're aware of it, winter'll be here. 
But yet, notwithstanding time passes away 
So exceedingly fast, and that day follows day 
In such rapid succession that one hardly leaves 
Their bed in the morn ere it comes dewy eve, 
Yet the same old story 'tis over and o'er, 
The same weary routine gone through with once more, 
The same dull monotony day after day ; 
Now a trifle of work, then a small bit of play, 
A book that's absorbing, a brilliant day-dream, 
Or a bright, flashing ray from hope's glittering beam, 
A walk now and then on a clear moonlight night, 
A letter received, or perchance one to write j 



STOLEN WATERS. 21 

A call from a friend, or a brief visit paid, 

An engagement fulfilled, or some promises, made, 

Sometimes a fine drive, an occasional song. 

And thus, the long, warm, summer days jiass along. 

I am heartily tired of these trivial things ! 

I would like a change, now, whatever it brings ; 

Something wonderful, startling, or thrillingly strange, 

Something new, something grand, anything for a change ! 

I almost had said I would rather it be 

Even grief than this sameness so irksome to me. 

It is true we receive startling news every day 

From the army, but that's such a distance away, 

And no one is out there for whom aught I care, 

With exception, it may be, of Colonel Allair. 

Nor do I know why I should care for him much, 

Though I think him a friend, and I like him as such ; 

But then my acquaintance with him was but slight, 

And yet I did think he would certainly write. 

He did not, 'tis true, say he would, but I thought 

He intended to do so, but that matters not; 

I was thinking, perhaps, that it possibly might 

Have been some variation, although it were slight, 

To the usual round that of late marks each day. 

But there, let him pass ! I have something to say 

About the events of the day nearly gone. 

I v/ent out to service as usual this morn, 
But not as in general saw I the face 
Of my charming " unknown " in his usual place ; 
For a stranger, to-day, occupied his old seat 
In the choir, and thus rendered their number complete. 



li^ STOLEN WATEE8. 

Mr. S. gave to us a war-sermon this morn, 
Which I of course listened to only with scorn. 
I cannot at any time hardly submit 
Under one of his ultra war-sermons to sit, 
But think I was annoyed and disgusted still more 
This morning than ever I have been before. 
The discourse provoked me, was tediously long ; 
The music was harsh, and there seemed something wrong, 
Something wanting, in all of the service to-day, 
But what it might be I pretend not to say, 
And I only can tell that, as over and o'er 
I turned toward the choir, that I missed indeed more 
Than I like to acknowledge, I think, e'en, to you. 
My dear Journal, a face that I've been wont to view, 
A voice I have listened to gushing in song. 
And smiles that have beamed on me now for so long. 
I wonder where he could have been all to-day. 
And what could have kept him from service away. 
By the way, my dear Journal, I'll say in this place, 
That I heard a few days since his last name was " Chase," 
And that 'tis his intent to be married soon, too, 
And then I should like to know what I'm to do ! 
For she will get all of his smiles if she's there. 
And he will for me, then, have not one to spare. 
Such a fate would be terrible (?). And, by the way. 
Perhaps that is why he was absent to-day. 
And when next I see him, perchance by his side 
I shall then see a beautiful, sweet, " blushing bride." 
But there ! I should really like to know who 
The " fair ladye " may be if the story is true. 
And I wonder if he will then give up his place 
In the choir, if that should be the state of the case. 



STOLEN WATERS. 23 

I hope not ; I do not believe tliey will find 
His peer very soon, not, at least, to my mind. 
Perhaps, though, that _Z^may be partial somewhat; 
Birt then, who that ever has heard him is not ! 
By all I believe he's acknowledged to be 
" Ne plus ultra " in singing, at least ! But, dear me ! 
I am too tired to think, and I'm too tired to write, 
And presume I have said quite enough for to-night. 



August 23c^, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

I have not been to church since the last time I wrote, 
But have had of the service each day a report. 
And each Sabbath they've politics had o'er and o'er ; 
And I thought I would not go to church any more 
Until there's a change, for I cannot endure 
I Politics in the pulpit, and think, I am sure, 
j We hear quite enough of them during the week, 
' Without going to church and there hear a man sj)eak 
\ Of nothing at all beside slavery and war. 
Now, I do not believe but that -Tdo abhor 
The system of slavery as much as does he, 
I Am just as desirous the slaves should be free. 
But I own I don't think that the end justifies 
The means ; nor to me does it seem hardly wise 
Our country to plunge into this civil war — 
Which every nation should always abhor — 
And our fair land to cover with unnumbered graves, 
For the possible issue of freeing the slaves. 



24 STOLEN WATERS. 

I think tliat if there had been made a decree 

That every child henceforth born should be free 

That it better, far better would been in the end, 

For all would, of course, educated been, then, 

For freedom ; been qualified thereby to do 

Their share in this life's hard, stern battle. And, too, 

In a few fleeting years slavery would have been o'er, 

And the " cry of the oppressed " would be heard never 

more — 
All chains would be broken, all slaves would be free. 
And then, too, how many fond hearts there will be 
Left sad, and how desolate ! I don't pretend 
To be so patriotic. I never would send 
Any dear friend of mine, to lose limb, perhaps life. 
In this fratricide war, in this unholy strife. 
I am not patriotic enough, yet, to bind 
The sword to the side of a loved fiiend of mine, 
And to bid him " God speed," with a clear, tearless eye ; 
Bid him go forth to battle, perchance, too, to die. 
All alone and forlorn, with not one dear friend nigh 
To catch the last word, or last, tremulous sigh ; 
Or, in a rude hospital, sick and unfriended, 
To lie moaning with pain, yet unwatched and untended ; 
Or what would be worse still, in prison to be. 
Unfed and unclothed, sick for sweet liberty. 
Had this cruel war been with some other nation. 
We could have endured our fair land's desolation — 
Our broken home-circles, our firesides so drear. 
The hush of the voices that once were so dear. 
So fearfully hard it would not be to see 
Our loved ones torn from us. Yes, it would, indeed, 



STOLEN WATERS. 25 

Be different far if 'twas strife with anotlier 

Land or power ; but brothers against their own brothers ! 

'Tis too horrid to think of, or speak of, or write ! 

And I think, too, that I have already said quite 

Enough on the subject ; I did not intend 

To do the same thing which I just now condemned, 

And preach a " war-sermon," my Journal, to you. 

And perhaps, just as ultra this one has been, too, 

As those Mr. S. writes, which I can't endure. 

But I'm not in the pulpit, and I am assured 

That my congregation is not a mixed one, 

So I think there is not any great mischief done. 

It has been pretty stormy the whole day, and so 
I did not this morn go to church ; and although 
I expected, as usual, they'd have war to-day. 
And that our Mr. Tenor remained yet away, 
I was somewhat mistaken on both points, I find, 
For the sermon this morn was exceedingly fine — 
Father told me (he went out this morning alone), 
And the music of course was, because " my Unknown" 
His usual seat in the choir filled this morn ; 
And of course I regretted that I had not gone. 
I would like to see him, and find out if I can, 
If of him I must think as a lost, married man. 
And I might have been able to tell if I'd gone 
To church. But, it's being so stormy this mom, 
She would not have been out very probably, so 
I presume it's as well now that I did not go. 
But I would like to know if he's married or not — 
I, indeed, scarcely think that he is. I forgot 
2 



26 STOLEN WATERS. 

That I had the gentleman's name ascertained ; 
I should call him by it. Yet it's all the same ! 
To me he's the " Unknown," beside, I'm not quite 
Assured that the name to me given was right. 

As father thought he would go down town to-night, 
And as it was stormy, and dark, too, about 
Half-past seven, to service none of us went out. 
But next Sunday morning, I think I shall go, 
And try to find out if he's married or no ; 
And then, my dear Journal, I'll let you know, too. 
And until then I think I must bid you adieu. 



September 9th, 18G3. 



WEDNESDAY. 



Again over two weeks have flown swiftly past, 
And two Sabbaths have flitted by since I wrote last. 
I service attended two Sundays ago. 
And saw Mr. Tenor, but still do not know 
Any better, in fact, than I did the last time 
I -wrote of him here in this journal of mine, 
If he's married or not ; I indeed only know 
That as usual he sat in the choir ; know, also. 
That no lady was with him that morning, and, too. 
He looked and appeared just as he used to do. 
I might, therefore, as well still believe him to be. 
Until I know better, " heai-t- whole, fancy-free I " 



STOLEN WATERS. 27 

I went out to Tarrytown last Saturday, 
Remaining ''till Monday, and so was away 
From service on last Sunday ^orn. Nothing new 
Has occurred since that time. Yes, indeed ! there has, too ! 
The carrier called yesterday afternoon. 
My Journal, and brought me a letter ; from whom 
I could not imagine at first, as the hand 
Was quite unfamiliar ; but when I began 
A perusal of it, and had looked to see where 
It was dated, inferred 'twas from Colonel Allair ; 
And, on turning to look for the name at the close, 
I found it to be just as I had supposed. 
'Twas indeed a nice letter, but only just such 
As I knew he would write, and it did please me much. 
'Twas dated at Vicksburg, the twentieth day 
Of last month ; and informed me that he'd been away 
On service detached, for some little time past ; 
But had now been sent back to the army, at last. 
That at the surrender of V. he was there ; 
But on the day following. Colonel Allair 
Was detailed to convey to his far Western home 
The mortal remains of a friend of his own. 
His regiment's Major. And that was why he 
Had postponed for so long, this, his letter to me. 
But hoped I'd excuse his unwilling delay. 
And very soon write him a few lines to say 
He still might regard me a friend. That 'twas not 
Because for a moment that me he forrrot. 
But feared that ere this I'd ceased thinkins: of him. 
Dut hoped not, and trusted, though that might have been 
The case before now, this would serve to remind 
Me sufiiciently of him to send hiTn a line. 



28 STOLEN WATEB8. 

[ said to him once, I was fearful that we 
On certain points possibly might disagree. 
So he writes : ^ 

" My dear fri^d, why suppose that we do ? 
I do not imagine we'd quarrel, do you ? 
I believe, certainly, every one has a right 
Their own free opinions to hold. Though they might 
Ditfer widely from others, I never should think 
That they much moral courage possessed, should they shrink 
From freely expressing the same. And although 
I am likely to say what I think, am also 
Willing others should do just the same. So think we 
Shall not, my dear friend, very much disagree." 
Then in speaking soon after of what he well knew 
To be my opinions on war and peace, too, 
He says : 

" I imagine, from what you have said, 
That your ' love of union ' is too limited. 
I think that, if I understand you aright, 
That your love of union must ever be quite 
In abeyance unto your wishes for peace. 
To your earnest desire that the war should soon cease. 
Now my love of ' union with peace ' is strong, too, 
But when it is necessary to subdue 
Rebellions like this, I say, * union with war.' 
But there are more unions that I've a love for, 
* A union of States, and a union of lands, 
A union of hearts, and a union of hands.' 
And a union of man to the woman he loves, 
Providing, of course, that both parties approve." 
Then he adds farther down, 



STOLEN WATERS. 29 

" But I yet do not know, 
Of the passion of love, anything at all ! So, 
If any peculiar sensations are Jelt, 
I own I am ignorant of their effect ; 
Nor do I intend, now, to make any such 
Proposals to you, unless I very much 

Change my mind on the subject. But hope now and then, 
For some flashes of wit from your bright, lively pen. 
That, for sweet friendship's sake, you'll sometimes send to me 
A few lines, the monotony thus to relieve 
Of my dreary war-path ; and as far, too, as lies 
In my power to do so, I ever shall try 
To render it pleasant to you," 

That's about 
All he wrote ! But my light is so fast going out, 
I must shut up my book, I suppose, for this time, 
And go down-stairs. But, hark ! the bell's ringing for nine. 
So the gas in my dressing-room think I will light. 
Bead an hour or two, and not go down to-night. 



September 27 thy 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

My dear little Journal ! I come here once more. 
To have a nice chat, as so often before 
We've chatted together in this tiny room, 
At sunrise, at sunset, at midnight, and noon. 
Under all circumstances as well as all times, 
Bight here, in this little dear " Sanctum " of mine. 



30 STOLEN WATERS. 

This place all so quiet, where no one intrudes, 

The spot where I always may find solitude, 

1 sit here Avhen the morning sun's glorious beams 

Through the deep, arching window so dazzlingly streams, 

And gilds with a radiance almost sublime 

Every object in this dear apartment of mine — ■ 

The easy-chair here in this curtained recess, 

The table beside it with wide-open desk, 

The papers, engravings, and late magazines, 

And touches again with its radiant beams 

Every favorite book in the cases, and all 

The familiar dear pictures which hang on the wall. 

I love the spot, then. When the deep glowing noon 

Makes oppressive the heat, then I come to this room. 

And I draw down the curtains to soften the ligh.t, 

If a book I've to read, or have letters to write. 

Then I love to sit here when the gathering twilight 

Proclaims day is rapidly yielding to night. 

Watch the swift-fading hues of the far sunset sky, 

The stars glimmer out in the blue vault on high. 

And trying to count them, as fast, one by one, 

They dot the wide circle of Heaven's arching dome. 

Then I love to come here in the night's silent noon, 

When from high, spangled throne the fair, pale " lady Moon" 

Serenely looks down on the still, sleeping world, 

With its armies at rest, and its banners all furled. 

Its doors barred, windows blinded, and storehouses closed. 

And everything sleeping in perfect repose. 

But tliough on the world she looks coldly, and me. 

She floods with pure silver each leaf, bud, and tree, 

And ray " Sanctum " she fills with a weird, mystic light. 

Oh, who can help loving a clear, moonlight night ? 



STOLEN WATERS. 31 

Then I sit in the window and rear in the air 

Castles gorgeously grand, and surpassingly fair ! 

And give myself up for the time to bright dreams, 

And imagine that all things are just what they seem ; 

That all that doth glitter is pure, unalloyed gold, 

That the world is not heartless, and cruel, and cold, 

That friends never are false, nor our loved ones untrue, 

Kg lost hopes to mourn, and no errors to rue, 

That all is sweet harmony, purity, love, 

No sorrow below, and no dark clouds above. 

But when wishing to sleep, give me then a dark room, 

No gas-light, no star-light, no light of the moon, 

Let the curtain droop low, and draw down the blind tight, 

And bid to things earthly a silent good-night. 

Well ! my brother each Saturday's been up for me 
To go for the Sabbath with him up to T. 
Since the last time I wrote, and of course, too, I went — 
I had no excuse, there was'^maught to prevent. 
And so I have not been to church 'till to-day. 
Although I disliked much remaining away. 
And it did seem so pleasant to be there once more. 
And to hear the grand organ's exquisite notes pour 
All through the vast temple, and hear once again 
The tones of the choir with the organ's notes blend, 
'Twas nice, just to sit in my usual place. 
And see there above me the same smiling face. 
I went out to service this eve, too, again, 
tt is so pleasant there in the evening ; and then 
I like my " Unknown " to observe best at night. 
Though he looks quite as well by day as by gas-light. 



32 8T0LEN WATERS. 

He's splendid in all places, and at all times ; 

And I do like him ever so much, too, in fine ! 

By the way, T believe I at last have found out 

His name ; and this time, too, without any doubt. 

I never, in fact, believed really yet 

My former intelligence very correct 

In regard to the matter ; nor could I have called 

Him by that ; but his name is not pretty at all, 

The first or the last ; but T think I'll not tell 

You, my Journal, what 'tis — think 'twill be just as well 

That you should not know it. Suffice it to say 

That his first name is " John," and a name, by the way, 

That I never did like ; although 'tis, it is true. 

Quite a family name with us. Then I have, too. 

More friends by that name than by any beside, 

Its Colonel Allair's, too ! My Journal, good-night. 



NovBrnher M, 1863. 

TUESDAY. 

To-day is my birth-day ! I'm nineteen to-day, 
Can another whole year have so soon slipped away ? 
And can it be possible that I have seen 
Of girlhood's sweet birthdays the last in my teens ? 
It seems, when I look back, almost like a dream, 
The years that have passed since I entered my teens. 
And thought it would seem such a very long time 
Before I was out of them ! But, Journal mine. 
The long years have flown very quickly away, 
And my nineteenth birthday I welcome to-day. 



STOLEN WATERS. 33 

The weatlier to-day rather stormy has been, 
But cleared off quite pleasant before evening; 
The sun sank to rest in the beautiful west, 
In his rich-tinted robes just as gorgeously dressed, 
As if he'd not hidden almost the whole day 
His glorious head behind dark clouds of gray. 
And only emerged for a parting good-night 
Ere leaving our world with his life-giving light. 
Well ! as it had cleared off so wondrously fair, 
I thought I'd go out for a breath of fresh air. 
And so, dressing, I went down to Ed Vamey's store. 
For some pond-lily, pens, one or two trifles more. 
He seemed, as in general, glad to see me. 
What a singular man he to me seems to be ! 
Like Lord Byron's " bird with cerulean wings," 
Whose song ever " seemed saying a thousand sweet things," 
So his eyes and his tones do speak volumes sometimes. 
As he touches my hand, or his glances meet mine. 
His every word is almost a caress. 
And his manner, in truth, seems at times scarcely less. 
He's a rather fine-looking man, and — let me see ! 
His age I should think is about thirty -three. 
I wonder sometimes if he seems just the same 
To all lady friends, or e'en some I could name ; 
[ presume that he does, though, but such looks and tones 
I could give to no one I've as yet ever known. 
And though I'm disposed very often to flirt 
He seems too much in earnest, and fear I might hurt 
His feelings far more than I'd gratif}"- mine. 
And for such a flirtation I now have no time. 
With letters so often from Colonel Allair, 
And my " Unknown " to think about, too, do not care 
2* 



34: STOLEN WATERS. 

Another jflirtation just now to begin, 

At least with Ed Vamey. Enough, though, of him ! 

Let him pass for the present. 

And, oh, by the way, 
I learned the address of " my Unknown " to-day, 
His residence, his place of business, and all ! 
Next time I go down town I think I will call 
At the store ; and if he should then chance to be in, 
And I am so fortunate as to see him, 
I shall know I am right; then I'll send him a note. 
Just the sweetest one also that I ever wrote. 

And now, as the hours are fast taking their flight, 
My birth-day I'll bid a regretful good-night ! 



JSFovemher 9th, 1863. 

MONDAY. 

I of course went to church morn and eve, yesterday, 
It has been quite a time now, since I've staid away. 
Saw my charming " Unknown," and I heard once again 
His exquisite voice in the solemn refrain, 
And met the soft glance of his splendid dark eye, 
And saw the same smile, as in days now gone by. 
Such " perilous glances," " bewildering smiles," 
I very much fear this poor heart will beguile, 
'Till I yield me a captive to love's rosy hand, 
"While he binds me quite fast with his glittering band, 
And unlike " Ellen Douglass " and " Malcolm Graeme," 
ZTts hand '11 hold the clasp, while my neck wears the chain ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 35 

"Went down town this p.m. my friend Annie, and I. 
So I stopped in the store as I chanced to pass by ; 
I j)urchased a magazine, at the same time 
Looking 'round for the owner, that " Unknown " of mine. 
And I looked not in vain ! for, apart from the rest, 
He sat, calm, serene, at a low private desk 
Swiftly writing — oh, would that it had been to me 
He was tracing those lines, graceful, careless, and free, 
Intent on his task, never once raised his head, 
Nor while I was in there a single word said. 
He did look so handsome, so splendid, so grand, 
Sublimely unconscious, that so near at hand 
Was a girl just sufficiently foolish to let 
His mild, handsome face haunt her thoughts even yet. 

But enough ! let him pass ! I have seen him, and when 
I get ready a note I will send him, and then 
Perhaps he will sit in the very same place, 
A.nd over my letter bend his handsome face. 



JSTovemher \^th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

The last week passed quietly, calmly away, 
With nothing important to mark its brief stay. 
My sister came home from the East, Thursday morn. 
And iho next day a note from my friend, " Colonel John." 
That is all, I believe, that is worthy of note. 
Except that one evening a few lines I wrote. 



36 STOLEN WATERS. 

Intending to send it off to my *' Unknown," 
But my heart having failed me, I left it alone, 
And its in my writing desk, still incomplete, 
But I think I will finish it during this week. 

It rained this a.m., so we all staid at home, 
And father and I went this evening alone. 
We were rather late, also, and when we went in. 
The choir were just taking their places to sing. 
My " Unknown " was there in his usual place. 
Smiles adding their charm to his fine, manly face ; 
And as the rich light with its radiance warm. 
Beautifying and brilliant, streamed over his form. 
To his strange fascinations quite captive once more, 
I thought him more pleasing than ever before. 
What is there about him bewitches me so ? 
I am sure that I would very much like to know. 
It is not his face, for although it is fine. 
And I've praised it so highly, too, time after time. 
Yet I've seen a great many far handsomer men. 
There's Colonel Allair, to begin with, and then 
Charlie Darling, and Morrill, and Gus, and — oh dear ! 
A great many more that I can't mention here. 
It must be his manner, if 'tis not his face. 
His sweet smiles, witching glances, his fine, manly grace. 
His exquisite voice ever charming me so ; 
And I think, more than all else, the fact that I know 
So little of him, and not like to know more. 
And am sure if I did that the spell would be o'er. 
Acquaintance would break the enchantment, I'm sure. 
And of my girlish folly effect a full cure. 



STOLEN WATERS. 37 

Well ! the service soon ended as all things must do, 
And here I sit talking, my Journal, to you. 
And showing, you see, just how foolish I am, 
To waste so many thoughts on a quite unknown man. 
But there ! not a single word more will I write ! 
So I bid you, my Journal, once more a good-night. 



November ISth, 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Well ! the deed is accomplished, the die has been cast, 
And I've sent to my " Unknown " a letter, at last ! 
I wrote it last evening, despatched it to-day. 
He'll receive it to-morrow, if there's no delay. 
I'm impatient to know what its destiny '11 be ; 
If he'll deign to send a nice answer to me. 
In " charity " written, with kindly words fraught. 
Or cast it aside as unworthy a thought — 
Misconstruing the motive with which it was sent. 
Alone on its author bestow his contempt. 
My letter ran nearly as follows, I guess. 
First, the usual form of the date and address : 
Date— " New York, November 18th, '63. 

Address — " My dear Sir : 

" I trust you'll pardon me, 
And not deem me bold if I send you a line. 
You a stranger ! Thus laying aside, for a time, 
All etiquette rules ; hoping you'll not refuse 
To freely forgive me ; and for my excuse, 



38 STOLEN WATERS. 

Pleading int'rest in you, and my hopes you will send 
A few lines in answer to your unknown friend. 

I saw you at first, if I recollect right. 
Over one year ago, and in church. Sabbath night. 
What drew my attention at once, by the by, 
I know not, unless 'twas the glance of your eye, 
The smile on your lips, merry, careless, and free, 
And your exquisite voice ever charming to me. 
Since that time I've seen you again and again, 
And each time I have liked you more, even, than then ; 
And although it is possible I have no skill 
In reading correctly one's character, still 
I think I may say you're not one to object 
To a little flirtation, if innocent — yet 
If I am mistaken I wonder if I 
Could not reach your vanity if I should try. 
Is it nothing to win an emotion from one 
Who yields to the charm of your presence alone ? 
A passing emotion to win from the heart 
Of one who has never been ' pierced by love's dart ' ? 
Whose pulse other men have no power to thrill, 
Who is queen of herself — and intends to be still ? 
You will think this is strange — so do I ! — but you know 
There are many strange things in this poor world of woe ; 
And I must repeat my sole motive to be. 
My desire from your hand a few lines to receive — 
There ! I might have delayed a month longer, or so, 
And then for my reason had * Leap Year ' you know ; 
Why did I forget it ? But 'tis all the same. 
Now 'tis not my intention to tell you my name, 



STOLEN WATERS. 39 

Or aught of myself, and am sure 'twill be vain 

For you to attempt any knowledge to gain 

Of your correspondent, and it is alone 

A fu ture acquaintance to you'll make me known. 

But here k.tme tell you, en 2^assant, my friend, 

That though to a stranger this letter I send. 

That though ^ to thee only e'er turns my fond heart, 

And life is all lonely except where thou art,' 

Though I sometimes ^ long for a glimpse of your face, 

With hopeless heart-achings for one dear embrace,' 

Yet your wife — if you have one — is not, by the by, 

Notwithstanding all this, any purer than I, 

And the friendship I now entertain for you, too, 

Is as disinterested, as sincere, and true, 

As the most nice, fastidious person could wish. 

I presume that I need not ask you to keep this 

Strictly private ; a man of your age can but know 

That it is for your own interest to do so. 

Even more than for mine. And, indeed, I may say, 

That it matters but little to me, either way, 

For you are acquainted with no one that knows 

The hand which I write. So you see, I suppose. 

You can know naught of me, except what I propose 

This time or in future to you to disclose. 

" Now in closing my note, I ask — will you not send 
A few lines in answer to your unknown friend ? 
And if, in the mean time, you should regard this 
With favor sufficient to gi'ant me my wish. 
Will you not oblige me by wearing your ring 
On your Icfi hand, the next Sabbath morn, when you sing ? 
Not so ignorant am I of what we all call 
The * world,' not to fancy with readiness all 



4:0 STOLEN WATERS. 

You may think of the one who this note sends to you. 

But judge me with charity, as is my due, 

And some time you may have occasion to change 

Your opinion of me ! — 'twould be naught very strange I 

Now, hoping to hear from you during the week, 

I am, 

** With sincerity, 

" Yours. 

" ' Bitter-Sweet.' " 
That, except my address, is the whole, I believe, 
I may have an answer by Satm-day eve, 
But probably not 'till the following week. 
I am glad I have finished — I'm almost asleep. 



November 22d, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

One more holy Sabbath has vanished among 
The things that have been ! And once more I am come 
For a few moments' chat, my dear Journal, with you ; 
As there's now nothing else I'm desirous to do, 
And as I don't care to retire either, yet. 
Though I ought to before very long, I expect. 
For it's nearly eleven now, I must admit. 
I ^071*1 like to go to bed early one bit ! 

I meant, as I said the last time that I wrote. 

To have gone yesterday, to find out if a note 

At the office was waiting, in answer to mine 

I despatched to my unknown friend " once on a time." 



STOLEI^ WATERS. 4:1 

But when I was dressed, and had stepped out the door, 

I perceived what I'd quite failed to notice before, 

That 'twas then raining fast ; so I thought I'd delay 

My walk to another and pleasanter day. 

I did not, in fact, care about getting wet, 

And 'twas doubtful, beside, if he'd written me yet. 

Well ! I've been out to church morn and evening again, 
As a matter of course, my dear Journal ! and when 
The choir were come forward the first time to sing, 
Of course my first glance was for Ms diamond ring. 
And my first thought for him ! And as then from my book 
I raised my eyes slowly, my first quiet look 
"Was rewarded by seeing him standing up there, 
And looking as merry, as gay, free from care, 
As handsome, as smiling, as splendidly grand. 
As ever before. And there on his left hand, 
And taking especial pains to have it seen, 
Was, as I expected, his elegant ring. 
To-morrow some time I'll be certain to go 
To see if he's sent me a letter or no. 
Or if he was playing when carrying out 
The request I in mine made his fine ring about. 

My brother and sister were in town to-night. 
And went to church with us. 

My " Unknown " was quite 
Amused about something, but -Tdo not know, 
Of course, what it was. But — I think that, although 
With the same laughing glance he looked into my eyes, 
Betraying therein no unusual surprise. 
No curious wonder, yet he does not dream 
That I'm his unknown correspondent, I ween. 



^2 STOLEN WATERS. 

His rin2j still remained on his left hand to-night. 
And I saw it, of course ! but he did not make quite 
So much effort to hold it in such a way, then, 
That it might be observed — as he did this A.M. 
Sometimes 'twas behind him, as often he stands, 
And sometimes his hymn-book was held in that hand. 
But here I've sat dreaming and writing of him 
And events of the day 'till my eyes are quite dim, 
So my book I will shut up this instant, and write 
Not one other line in my journal to-night. 



JSFoverriber 2Qthj 1863. 

THURSDAY. 

To-day is "Thanksgiving! " But first let me write 
What has happened to me since the last Sunday night — 
That is, the result of my venture last week, 
The kind of reception my letter did meet. 
With all that pertains to the same ! 

You must know 
The morning hours, Monday, dragged tediously slow. 
While the tasks which employed both my hands and my 

time, 
Helped but little to quell such imj^atience as mine — 
Provoking impatience ! my most common sin ! 
Which makes in my heart such perpetual din, 
Which ruffles my temper, and oft clouds my brow, 
Unstrings every nerve, 'till I'm ready to vow 
That life is a burden I fain would lay down. 
And yield with the cross all my* hopes of the crown ; 



STOLEN WATERS. 43 

That life is a battle the strongest must win, 

Be they powers of good, be they powers of sin. 

So much for impatience ! which, last Monday mom, 

An unwelcome guest, which refused to be gone. 

With hand on my heart-strings, kept close at my side, 

And made the slow hours e'en more tardily glide. 

Well ! the afternoon really did come at last, 
And about two o'clock, or a few minutes past, 
^TE was dressed, and had started for Brooklyn, to see) ^ ^"^ ,, 
Lif there was at the office a letter for me. ^'^-jj 

( (I directed, my Journal, his answer should be 
Sent to Brooklyn Post Office, in order that he ) 
1 Might the less reason have for suspicions of me ; 
For I, of course, do not intend he shall know 
' Who I am, either now or hereafter, and so 
I must take all precautions lest he should find out. 
As he would be glad to do, I've not a doubt!) 
Well ! when the detestable clerk there had eyed 
Both me and my letter till quite satisfied. 
And quizzed me 'till patience was vanishing fast. 
The much wished for letter he gave me at last. 
With it safe in my hand I left there in great haste, 
And for New York I started at once with quick pace. 
And once more to impatience succumbing, you see, 
And regardless of what etiquette's rules might be 
On the point, I at once broke the seal of my note, 
And in the street read what ray unknown friend wrote ; 
But glanced through it so swiftly, I really knew 
Little more of my letter when I had got through 
Than when I began; but I hastened back homo, 
As fast as I could, and when once more alone 



4A STOLEN WATERS. 

I read the nice note to my heart's full content 

Which he to his new friend so kindly had sent. 

He writes an uncommonly nice, handsome hand, 

Especially so for a true business man, 

Full and round, smoothly flowing as well as quite plain, 

And the well-expressed sentiments, pleasing, the same ; 

On " Carson's Congress " it was written, enclosed 

In a plain buff envelope ; the same, I suppose, 

Which he keeps in his office for use when he writes 

To his business friends. That, too, is just what I like ! 

Whenever a man sends a letter to me 

I like that the note should a m,anly one be. 

In paper, envelopes, and handwriting, too, 

As well as its contents both honest and true. 

But whenever a lady a note sends to me, 

I don't care how dainty the billet may be. 

To return to his letter again ! Journal, dear, 
I suppose you would like me to give to you here 
A copy of it, as I have done of mine. 
And I think I will, too, though I hardly have time ; 
It was not very long, or at least the one sheet 
Was not nearly filled. It commenced — 

" ' Bitter Sweet ! ' 

" Your note of the 18th to me cam© 
to-day, 
And I truly can do nothing less than to say. 
That, as well as surprised, I of course could but be 
Somewhat pleased at its contents ! But you must per- 
ceive 
That you have indeed the advantage of me, 
Aiid I am of course very curious to see 



STOLEN WATEE8. 45 

And know you ; altho' you need have not a fear 

I will take any means not quite open and clear, 

And every way hon'rable, to ascertain 

What would give me much pleasure to have you explain, — 

That is, who is taking such int'rest in me. 

And who my unknown correspondent may be. 

" VThat a fine, pretty hand you are writing ! and so, 
Of course, young and fresh it must be. Do you know 
What Don Caesar Bazan exclaims to the veiled bride, 
As he takes her white hand upon reaching her side ? 

* It's tol'rably soft, and I'm curious to know. 
With such a small hand, if a wrinkled face goes.' 
Now that is just what is the trouble with me, 
And I wonder if I could your hand just once see, 
I could of your face judge, as you seem to trace — 
Or affect to at least— by a glance at my face, 

My character social. But, let me ask * who 
Hath made thee a judge ' as between me and you? 
Who has said I objected to what you have called 
An * innocent flirtation ? ' Oh, no ! not at all ! 
And as to the * vanity,' I have my share. 
King Solomon seems to have had some to spare, 
If we judge by his words. 

" But there ! I cannot write. 
To you, except 'tis with some vagueness, to-night. 
As I do not know who you may be — man or woman, 
A spirit or goblin. Divine or quite human. 
And do you remember what * Sam Weller ' says 
(Of course you read Dickens ; all do in these days), 

* Weal pies wery good is, when one knows as what 
They are made of.' But who you may be I know not, 



46 STOLEN WATERS. 

Thougli the writing does look quite familiar, 'tis true ; 

I never was good at conundrums ! Are you ? 

If your wish is to see me, why, you can do so 1 

I'll not eat you, no cannibal am I, you know. 

I think up to Carleton's I'll go, by the by, 

And a copy of * Bitter Sweet ' purchase — shall I ? 

Do you mean to some fun have at my sole expense ? 

I've a poem that's better than what you have sent, 

Or quoted from, rather, but think it will keep 

Until I know more of my friend ' Bitter Sweet ! ' 

I shall think in the meantime, believe me, of you, 

With only the ' charity which is your due ' — 

All of my nature's charity, which I believe 

I may say, too, is much. 

^' Now in closing, receive 
My kindest regards, and believe me to be, 
Now and ever, indeed, 

ii Truly yours, 

"« Antony.'" 
" To ' Bitter Sweet ! ' (wormwood and sugar.)" 

And that 
"Was the end and was all. Can it be 'tis in fact 
A note from my " Unknown " I hold in my hand ? 
Am I dreaming, or is it a truth, that the man 
Whose eyes have so often of late sought my own. 
And whose every motion familiar has grown, 
To whose voice I have listened again and again, 
In solo, or chorus, or solemn refrain. 
Has over this letter bent his handsome face. 
That his hand held the pen which these kind words have 
traced. 



STOLEN WATERS. 47 

That his heart or his brain has dictated this note, 
A pleasing reply to the one which I wrote ? 
I cannot the fact realize. 

By the way ! 
I saw at an artist's rooms lately, one day, 
A picture exactly like my " Antony." 
(En passant, he seemed to adopt readily, 
The fanciful name which I signed to my note, 
And instead of his using his own when he wrote, 
He too took a fancy one ! mine ought to be 
" Cleopatra," to match well with his " Antony !") 
To return to the picture ! And whose it might be. 
Or if it was his, I was anxious to see. 
The resemblance was striking, the painting, too, fine. 
I gazed at its details for quite a long time. 
I was sure it was him, or that if it was not, 
Whoever it was, he had certainly caught 
His smile and expression ! and not only that. 
The poise and contour of the head were exact. 
The features were like, and the beard worn the same. 
And in all points the likeness was perfectly plain. 
His name of the artist I presently asked. 
What was it ? let's see ! I believe it has passed 
Wholly out of my mind. But it matters not, though ; 
He resides up at Harlem is all that I know. 
It was not my " Antony." 

Oh, by the way. 
Had I gone to the office on last Saturday 
His note I should probably found, as the date 
Was November 19th. But it's getting quite late, 
I must haste with what else I'm intending to write. 



48 STOLEN WATEB8. 

The first thing I did, of course, last Monday night, 

Was to sit myself down at my desk, to indite 

A reply to my note. And I asked him to send 

His next though to Brooklyn, in care of a friend, 

My cousin Lorette. She was over to-day, 

And I told her about it ere going away. 

And charged her to keep it quite safely for me 

Did the letter arrive before 7^ was there. She 

Thought it was romantic, yet hardly approved. 

She thinks that the world and its people should move 

In the one self-same channel forever and aye. 

But I tire of the same events, day after day, 

A change like sometimes, and the stranger the better. 

Oh dear, I will try and get back to my letter. 

I don't know what ails me ! somehow I can't keep 

To-night on one subject. I am not asleep, 

I believe. But then ! I've been so blue all the day, 

Though there is no reason for it, I must say ; 

I believe that I am not like other girls quite. 

A houseful of friends we have had here to-night, 

In fact, have all da}'', and all friends near and dear. 

But somehow the day has been lonely and drear. 

To to-day, though, I have not arrived yet ; my thoughts 

Seem to be anywhere else except where they ought. 

Once more to my letter ! 

The first thing I wrote 
Was but to acknowledge receiving his note, 
With thanks for the favor ; and as to the rest, 
'Twas less sentimental than saucy, I guess. 
I began with affectionate warmth, it is true. 
And there was an undertone of it all through. 
But yet it could hardly be called sentiment. 
As the frail wood anemone's delicate scent 



STOLEN WATERS. 49 

Is too fresh and too faint to be named a perfume, 
So this was too faint and too pure. 

To resume ! 
I thanked him, of course, for replying so soon, 
And fulfilling my wish in regard to the ring, 
Was exceedingly glad to find, I assured him, 
By the letter which I that p.m. had received, 
That he in that point at least had not deceived 
His friend yet unknown, howe'er treacherous he 
Might in the dim future himself prove to be. 
I gave him in answer to what he would know 
Of me and my name the quotation below : 
** I know a girl with sunny curls. 
And shoulders white as snow ; 
She lives — ah, well ! I must not tell,. 

But wouldn't you like to know ? 
She has a name, the sweetest name 

That mortal can bestow. 
'Twould break the spell if I should tell. 
But wouldnH you like to know ? " 
Somewhat tantalizing he'll think it, I fear. 
The best I can do for him now, though, howe'er 
Desirous he may be to know more of me. 
Then I said — 

" So you fancy that if you could see 
My hand you could judge of my face ! I will try 
And send you a photograph of it. Shall I ? 
Of course you can't guess who I am ! I did not 
Suppose that you could ! but I know all about 
You and yours ! and not only that, but I've be;>-" 
In your business place, and you were wiiting, too, eun 
But it was not to me. 
3 



50 STOLEN WATERS. 

" Don't you like, my dear friend. 
My nom-de-plume ? Why ! I am sure that the end 
Is sweet if the rest is not ; possibly, you 
Will find, if I'm sweet, I am hitter some, too. 
Its lan^uaoje is ' truths I believe I am true ! 
Z think the name pertinent all ways ! don't you?" 
I spoke of attending the service to-day, 
If nothing prevented, and went on to say 
That I never could see him at all, where I sit, 
Except during singing, and if he saw fit 
To sit farther forward, just so he could see 
The preacher, he at the same time would please me. 
And added, 

" I c?o * wish to see you,' and do 
Quite often, but hardly dare trust m}'self too 
Near to you for the present, at least. I can you 
At a safe distance see, but if you would please send 
Your picture to your, though unknown, yet true friend 
'Twould indeed please her much." 

Then I asked him if he 
Did not like my poetry ; and — saucily — 
"Now I thought you would think it was flattering, quite; 
I defy you to find any better. You might, 
Though, send me the piece you referred to, and I 
Expect it will come to me with your reply." 
I wrote somewhat more, but we'll let the rest go. 
It rained very hard all day Tuesday, and so 
I found it impossible quite to get out 
To mail it that day, so I very much doubt 
His having received it as yet, though it might 
Just possibly come to his hands late last night. 



STOLEN WATERS. 61 

To-day is " Thanksgiving " — I said so before — 
And I'm heartily glad that the day is now o'er. 
The morning was pleasant, but cold. I must own 
'Twas not with reluctance I went out alone 
To church this a.m. No one else was inclined 
To go out, or in fact seemed to have enough time 
To spare for the purpose. And though it is true 
We should have a political sermon, I knew, 
Yet I had my " Antony " told I should go. 
And I mean to do just as I promise, you know ! 
The sermon, if possible, seemed rather more 
Triumphantly ultra than ever before. 
The reverend man never energy lacks 
When he's preaching of war, or of freeing the blacks, 
I did not, however, expect on this day 
To hear aught but that ; but endeavored to pay 
As little attention to it as I could. 

Though I could but acknowledge that some points were good 
For instance, he quoted in his matchless way, 
A poem from Whittier, which, I must say, 
Was not only pertinent, in itself fine. 
But rendered exquisitely. 

In the meantime, 
I thought of my Antony, who, I well knew 
Was right there before me, though hidden from view. 
When the service was over, and we going home, 
He v/alked right in front of me, he, too, alone ! 
How little he knew that his friend "Bitter Sweet" 
Was so near at hand as he turned at his street. 
How I wished that the spell were dissolved that must keep 
Us forever apart ; that at one mighty sweep 



62 STOLEN WATERS. 

I might break all the bands with which Custom doth bind 

Our acts, thougli we still keep unfettered our minds. 

Yv^ell ! he passed down the street, and soon entered his door, 

And between us there then rose one barrier more. 

1, too, hastened home ! As I said once before, 

"We've a houseful of visitors had here all day ; 

I might have enjoyed it if I had been gay, 

As I am sometimes. Hark ! the clock's striking one, 

I am so tired, and glad that at last I have done 1 



Novemler 2'^th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Another week's rapidly flitted away ; 
Again it is Sunday ! I went yesterday 
To make a short call on my cousin Lorette, 
With hopes that I also a letter might get. 
And she is true as steel, if she did not approve 
My romantic and somewhat luiusual move. 
I knew I could trust lier. We soon went upstairs 
To her own little " Sanctum Sanctorum," and where 
She placed me at once in her favorite chair, 
And gave me my letter, all safe, smooth, and fair. 
Not long was I breaking the seal of my note, 
Or reading the kind words my Antony wrote. 
As I thought, he did not, it appears, receive mine 
Until Friday a.m. And his let'ter was fine, 
Much nicer I think than the other he sent. 
And gave me much pleasure, I own ! It commenced 



STOLEN WATERS. 53 

" To mj sweetest Bitter, and bitterest Sweet ! " 
A form of address I thought rather unique, 
Yet characteristic of him, I believed. 
And then wrote as follows : 

" Your note I received 
In this morning's mail, and of course I was pleased 
At hearing from you. But you'll jDlease recollect 
That Thanksgiving came yesterday, therefore expect 
From a quite torpid brain not much brilliance to-day, 
In reply to your letter. And here let me say 
I believe that I am not afflicted at all 
With a certain disease which is commonly called 
* Cacoethes Scribendi.' " 

And then he went on 
To ask if I went to church Thanksgiving morn. 
And heard the " political sermon." He thought, 
As regards abolition and war, tliat it ought 
To content the most ultra — I'd written in mine 
That I was exceedingly fond of that kind. — 
He was pleased that his letter was gladly received, 
And hoped I'd enough " charity " to believe 
It to be on his part but a mere oversight 
That he failed in his other to ask me to write. 
Says — 

" I ask who you are, and you give me a bit 
Of a poem in answer. Now I will admit 
Poetry is indeed very good in its ])lace. 
But don't answer questions — at least in this case. 
Of course I should much ' like to know ' who you are. 
My far-off, iinknqwn, ^ bright particular star ! ' 
Do not send me a photograph, though, of your hand; 
If you do I'll not have it, indeed ! but you can 



64 STOLEN WATERS. 

The thing itself place in my own, then I'd know 

I was holding in mine something more than shadow ; 

But one of your face you can send me. How, though, 

Should I send mine to one I as yet do not know ? 

I've not lost my reason, or caution, and still 

You can have a good chance to exchange if you will, 

When- I've aught to exchange with." 

How much I would like 
His fine pictured face ! How I wish that I might 
Comply with the terms, if in no other way 
I might have it. Although, it is needless to say, 
That's out of the question, of course. He'd know me 
As soon as he saw it, and that must not be. 
Who his " Bitter Sweet" is I cannot let him know. 
Or now, or henceforth ; but I don't tell him so. 
He fondly imagines he'll know me some time. 
I don't undeceive him. Dream on, friend of mine I 
Hope is good for the soul, and " an anchor both sure 
And steadfast," 'tis said. Though we find it a lure 
Too often, I fear, to the bitter despair 
Of grim disappointment. Hope promises fair, 
And leaves us to find, in reward for our faith, 
In our grasp but a phantom, a flickering wraith — 
A shadow delusive, as fleeting as sweet, 
Yet by all mankind followed with swift, eager feet. 
Who will never be warned by another's sad fate 
But press madly forward, nor pause 'till, too late. 
They find themselves in disappointment's broad lake. 
She tells us without her our fond hearts will break. 
Then leaves us to sicken with faint " hope deferred." 
I have a dear friend whom I often have heard 



STOLEN WATERS. 55 

Declare she has been disappointed in naught, 
Because she ne'er hopes. She had certainly ought 
To be indeed happy ! At least, J^ think so. 
I envy her more than all persons I know. 
But I'm not like her ; I have less self-control, 
A more turbulent heart, and more intense soul ; 
Have less calmness of nerve, and less coolness of brain. 
Less firmness, more impulse ; in short, it is plain 
We are cast in two moulds which are very unlike, 
Or made of materials difierent quite. 
But if I could crush out all hope from my heart, 
And in my acts give the " fair siren " no part, 
" List not to her calls, shut my eyes to her smiles, 
And yield nevermore to her dangerous wiles. 
Feel free from her temptings both now and alway, 
I would have nothing more to desire ! I could say, 
*' Howl, wind of November, rough, wrathful, and chilly, 
As loud as you please, and I'll not take it illy, 
For here in my chamber all's comfort and ease. 
All's peace and delight, all is pleasure and glee. 
For I'm happy to-night as a mortal can be ! " 
But " Dum spiro spero " 's my fate, and should be 
My motto ! 

"Well ! back to his note — let me see ! 
How far had I written ? The picture — and then 
The next thing he wrote was, I think, near the end — 
" Your quotation — I surely no fault found with it. 
For 'twas good, and if true was of course better yet. 
But then, I am sure it was merely ideal, 
And I send you my own, and imagine it real. 
This scrawl please excuse, and believe me 

" Your own 

*' Antony, 



56 STOLEN WATERS. 

« To my ^Bitter-Sweet.' " 

This was the poem : 

** You kissed me ! my head had dropped low on your 
breast, 
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest, 
While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak 
Flashed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek. 
Your arms held me fast ! and your arms were so bold, 
Heart beat against heart in that rapturous fold. 
Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes, 
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies. 
And your lips clung to mine 'till I prayed, in my bliss. 
They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss. 

" You kissed me ! my heart and my breath and my will 
In delirious joy for the moment stood still. 
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, 
No vista of pleasure outside of your arms. 
And were I this instant an angel, possessed 
Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, 
I would throw my white robes unrepiningly down. 
And tear from my forehead its beautiful crown, 
To nestle once more in that haven of rest, 
With your lips upon mine and my head on your breast. 

" You kissed me ! my soul in a bliss so divine 
Reeled and swooned, like a drunken man foolish with wine. 
And I thought 'twere delicious to die then, if death 
Would come while my mouth was yet moist with your breath. 
'Twere delicious to die if my heart might grow cold 
WTiile your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold. 



STOLEN WATERS. 67 

And these are the questions I ask day and night : 
Must my soul taste but once such exquisite delight ? 
Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then, 
And if you were here would you kiss me again ? " 

I think it exquisitely fine. And of course 
Seems doubly expressive to come from that source. 
Impassioned and sweet, yet refreshingly pure, 
No fault I can have to find with it, I'm sure. 
But to come to to-day ! and to hasten it, too, 
For as ever 'tis late, I must quickly get through. 
To church morn and eve I of course went to-day. 
Saw my "Antony," too, just as handsome and gay — 
He does have such an easy and nonchalant way, 
As if nothing could ruflie him, let others say 
Or do what they might. And his temper is sweet, 
I am certain, as well as his manner just meet 
To match with his face, so serene, true, and kind. 
His soft, laughing, passionate eye still meets mine, 
Persistently, sweetly as ever, and yet 
I've not the least reason to think he suspects 
That I am his Bitter- Sweet ! never a trace 
Since sending my first have I seen in his face 
Of bewilderment, doubt, curiosity, aught 
Of inquisitive wonder. 'Tis strange he does not 
Have any suspicions, not only of me 
But of no one beside. There are many that he 
Might with very good reason imagine to be 
His unknown correspondent. 

Oh well, let it pass ! 
I sent him an answer to-day to his last. 
8* 



58 STOLEN WATERS. 

He'll receive it to-morrow ! And oli, by the "way, 

He sat not in front as I asked liim, to-day ; 

I suppose that he thinks he's not anxious to be 

Closely scrutinized all the time, even by me, 

His " own Bitter-Sweet ! " That 'tis sufficient that he 

Is constantly conscious that some one unknown 

Is watching each motion and look of his own 

When he sins^s. So he sat in his usual seat 

In the " corner " this morning, and so Bitter-Sweet's 

Request was unheeded. I asked what he did, 

In my letter to-day, when he sat safely hid 

From sight in the *' corner ^"^ 

'Tis late, and in bed 
[ must hasten to pillow my quite wearied head. 



December 2d, 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Oh, how perfect the night ! I've been sitting upstairs 
The whole evening, nearly. My great easy chair 
And my table drawn close to the bright glowing grate, 
I have written and dreamed 'till it's getting quite late, 
"With my journal unopened before me. The night. 
With its undreamed-of beauty all hidden from sight, 
By the low-drooping shade, and the tightly-closed blind. 
Unheeding the voice of December's chill wind. 
Its soft calls for entrance at casement and door, 
I have, as I said, sat the bright fire before. 
Slow yielding to Fancy's magnetic advance. 
Her airy bright dreams, heart-bewildering trance. 



STOLEI^ WATERS. 59 

At intervals writing, when not in the power 
Of the lovely enchantress, 'till hour after hour 
Have rolled their swift round, to return never more 
From the vanishing past, from Eternity's shore. 
*' Like a song that is sung, and a tale that is told," 
They have now passed away, and the day waxes old. 
Midnight softly approaches, and swift, one by one, 
The minutes glide onward, and — this day is done ! 
The clock's striking twelve, my watch ticks a response. 
And silence and midnight are now, for the nonce. 
Of our city twin-monarchs unquestioned. The bell 
Slowly tolls for the hour just departed, and swells 
Softly deep on the clear, frosty air. Now the last 
Stroke is dying — farewell to to-day ! 

I had passed 
To the casement a short time ago, and I drew 
Up the shade to look out on the night. And a view 
Before me was spread I've no words to describe. 
My seat I resumed, but I left open wide 
Every blind in the room, that the full lustrous tide 
Of the night's perfect beauty might entrance gain here, 
While I sit here and write. 

And the picture spreads clear 
And sweetly before me ! The city lies calm 
In night's silent embrace ; and a lullaby psalm 
Is sung by the wind, though it tranquilly sleeps 
And heeds not the clasp or the mu^ic which sweeps 
So fitfully, tenderly o'er it. Its spires, 

Gleaming white in the moonlight, now seem to point higher 
Than ever before to the home of the blest. 
All with eloquence speaks of sweet quiet and rest. 



60 STOLEN WATERS. 

So much for the background ! And now in the fore 

The park lies all silent, the trees festooned o'er 

Witli creamy white snow-wreaths, and ice-pendants, too, 

Wliich glitter like diamonds, or morning's clear dew, 

As over the whole streams the moonlight. The street 

Is deserted ! and hark ! I can hear my heai-t beat. 

So profound is the hush. The long, deep shadows meet, 

Intertwining and tracing, too, figures unique, 

Graceful, fanciful, varied, oft shifting, too. 

As the fickle wind flits the white tree-branches through. 

And then over all is the arched azure sky. 

Deeply blue and unclouded. The moon's riding high 

On her grand throne of state, and her radiance bright 

Sweeps over all points of the picture, and lights 

With a brilliance sublime the whole view. And the stars, 

Scintillescent, unnumbered, and lovelier far, 

To my eye, than all in the picture beside. 

Glow softly and purely ; and spangle in bright 

And boundless profusion the vast vault above, 

A glorious array ! And the bright star of love 

Still more lovely than any shines soft from afar — 

Sweet Yenus, our beautiful " Evening star." 

Farewell to the night ! let me now turn away 
From its beautiful self, while I come to to-day — 
The day just departed. 

I went this a. m. 
To Brooklyn to look for a letter again. 
And I went not in vain, though I fancied I should 
All the way over there. He's indeed very good ! 
I said in my last I'd a long way to go. 
And hoped he would not disappoint me ; and so 



STOLEN WATERS. 61 

His letter was promptly dispatched. He replied 
As follows to that part : 

" You do not reside 
In Brooklyn, ray Bitter-Sweet ? Well ! it is true 
I hardly supposed that you did ; nor did you 
Even say that you did : but you only implied 
It in your first letter." 

The city is wide, 
He cannot locate me. Poor boy ! 'tis too bad 
I can't tell him the whole. I am sure I'd be dad 
To do so at once, if I thought 'twould be best. 
Think of that, though, I must not ! And now for the rer 
And hastily too, of my Antony's letter ; 
It was not very long, began — " My Sweet Tormentor ! " 
He acknowledged at fii'st the receipt of my note. 
Praising me for the promptness with which I last wrote, 
Saying I would an excellent post-mistress be, 
And then — 

"But don't bother my life out of me, 
Keeping me for so long in suspense, like a fish 
With a hook in his gills ! " 

So my gentleman is 
Getting rather impatient, I see ; nor can I 
Wonder at it, indeed ; but I can't gratify 
]My dear friend in this point, though I made in reply 
Promise fair of acquaintance with me by and by. 
He was glad I was pleased with the poem he sent, 
And how could I help it ? Hwas fine, and he meant 
When some better he found to at once let me know. 
He sent me with this note another also. 
Then he said, — 



62 STOLEN WATERS. 

" In regard to the * corner ' I read, 
Sometimes ' snooze ' a little, don't talk much, indeed, 
But a great deal of thinking I do. How should I 
For a sight perch myself up ? although, by the by, 
If 1 knew where you sat, might perhaps get a glimpse 
Of you once in a while." 

I remember now, since 
Heceiving his letter, that I in my last, 
Criticising the poem " You Kissed Me," had passed 
To say, I supposed every one's heart to be 
On the left side. In that case, of course he must see 
A position in which a "heart beats against heart," 
At least, must be awkwaixl extremely. That part 
He replies to as follows: 

" Now as to the heart, 
Of course every one's is expected to be 
On the left side ! but then, did you never yet see 
Or hear of a person that had not a heart ? 
I have, at least, many, I think, for my part." 
Wrote a page or so more, then abruptly he says, 
I am going away to be gone a few days. 
Shall return Friday morning, expecting to find 
A letter from fair Bitter-Sweet. 

" Ever thine, 

" Antony." 
So a note I have written this eve 
In reply to his last, and which he will receive, 
I trust, as he wished, Friday morn. A last look 
At the beautiful night while I'm closing my book. 



STOLEN WATERS. 63 

December 6th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Twilight finds me again in my nice cosey room, 
Sitting close by tlie window ; the gathering gloom 
Slowly filling my sanctum with weird shadows grim, 
While without distant objects now swiftly grow dim. 
Fading are the rich hues from the far western sky, 
The first star shines out in the blue arch on high. 
And the short winter twiliojlit is o'er. I must light 
The gas in my sanctum if wishing to write. 
I've sat here a long time, my eyes on the grand 
Suns3t clo«ds in the west, with my cheek in my hand, 
Unopened the book in my lap. A tumult 
Of vague troubled thoughts in my mind, the result 
Of to-day's observation and last night's event. 
I'll tell you about it ! 

'Twas late when I went 
To B. yesterday for my letter. The day 
Had been, oh, so long ! Failed in getting away 
'Till late in the afternoon ; then it to me 
Seemed an endless long way from here over to B. 
All day I had scarcely dared think I should find 
Any letter awaiting me there, and my mind 
And nerves were so wrought up with hope, doubt, and fear, 
Being anxious to go, and yet forced to stay here. 
That I've been somewhat irritable all the day. 
Nervous, too, and — well, " cross,'''* I once heard Gertrude say. 



64 STOLEN WATERS. 

And when I at length was en route for Lorette's, 

As I said just above, the way seemed longer yet 

Than ever before. When I reached there at last, 

The sun had long set and 'twas growing dark fast. 

My cousin I fouud entertaining some friends, 

And I thought, I am sure, their call never would end. 

Lorette guessed the question my first glance implied, 

And by one just as eloquent quickly replied. 

And then softly whispered, while kissing my cheek, 

" I've a letter upstairs for my dear ' Bitter-Sweet.' " 

I was forced to seem calm, although inly I chafed, 

While they talked of all things, and of nothings ! and raved 

About this one's fine mustache, and that one's sweet face. 

Of Miss A.'s last new dress, of Miss B.'s lovely lace, 

The next ball, last night's party, and so, on and on, 

'Till politeness and patience Avere both nearly gone. 

I turned to the window in silence, and found 

It was growing yet darker each moment. The sound 

Of their farewells at lengtli reached my ear ; and then I, 

With a smile not all feigned, turned to bid them good-by. 

Lorette shut the door on her callers, and ran 

Upstairs for my letter. 'Twas soon in my hand, 

And I went to the window to catch the few last 

Faint gleams of daylight, while she lighted the gas. 

I turned from the casement at length, with a cheek 

A-flush with both pleasure and pain — turned to speak 

To Lorette, but the dear girl had gone out the room 

That I might be alone with my letter. She soon, 

However, returned, in her sweet, pretty war 

Did her best to induce me in Brooklyn to sidy 

Until Monday a.m. ; but I sent her instead 

To her room for a hat for her dear little head, 



STOLEN WATERS. 65 

And her home dress to change for her walking attire. 
Her toilet was made with a speed I admire 
"Very much, but somehow never can emulate, 
And homeward we started at once, at quick rate. 
She returned home this morning. 

And now for his letter I 
I think that he never has sent me a better. 
And yet, as I said once before, or implied, 
It gave me some pain if much pleasure. Each vied 
"With the other for conquest. But still, of the two, 
I think the most pleasure remains. Though 'tis true 
I scarcely can tell which is yet most complete. 
But if pleasure, my name it is like, hitter-sweet / 
In order to make plain some parts of his note, 
I'm obliged to refer to some things which I wrote 
In my last one to him. And first, some time ago, 
In one of my letters, and when he was so 
Very curious as to who B. S. might be, 
I told him he need not be lookinj; for me 
Among hlack-eyed ladies in church. And I this 
Said because, though I did not assuredly wish 
Him to think me his new correspondent, I yet 
Did not care, I think, either, that he should suspect 
Any one else hut me. And to this he has never 
Made any reply 'till this very last letter. 
Then in answer to what he about the P.M. 
In his other had said, I replied — 

" Wlien I spent 
Some time in the country, a few years ago, 
I had a dear friend who was post-mistress. So 
I thought it fine fun to assist her, you know I 



QQ STOLEN WATERS. 

Nothing new would it be to me, therefore, you see, 

To be a * P.M.' do jovl not, Antony ? 

I think I'd not care to hold office, although, 

Under * Abraham First.' " Then I told him, below, 

In regard to desiring to see me, that I 

Was going down town to have made, by and by, 

A hair ring, which a dear friend in dying gave me, 

And then it was possible, too, he might see 

His own *' Bitter-Sweet." Promises doubtful somewhat, 

And I fancy that Ae, too, will think they are not 

JExtremely reliable. Then I said, too, 

Concerning the picture — 

" I cannot send you 
One of mine, I believe, for you'd certainly know 
At the very first glance who was * Bitter-Sweet.' So 
If on no other terms you will send yours to me. 
Contented without it suppose I must be." 

I come now to his letter, of which I intend 
A copy to give from beginning to end. 
To you, and to you, my dear Journal, alone. 
First, as usual, the date, then — 

" My * Antony's own ! ' 
I received yours this morning, and find you are still 
Most punctual in your correspondence ; and will 
You be in your promises also ? 

" How came 
That thought of the post-mistress into my brain ? 
Was it a coincidence, do you surmise, 
Or was it pathetism ? say, my Blue Eyes ! 
And so you do not like * Abraham the First.' Well, 
I can't say that J^do a great deal myself. 



STOLEN WATERS. 67 

Althougli I doubt not there are yet many men 

That are, in some points, worse than he is. But then 

We will let, as a mantle, our * charity ' cover 

Their sins of omission and commission over. 

Well ! I'm just as inquisitive, curious, too, 

Now as ever before. Yours are not * eyes of blue ' 

When I'm singing at church I so frequently meet 

Upturned to my own, are they, my Bitter-Sweet ? 

What do you suppose in the * corner ' I read ? 

* Words, words, words,' but I think not a little indeed 

Of late, and of whom ? aye ! my friend, that's the question ! 

Can you guess, or in truth make the slightest suggestion 

As to who it might be ? Do we not, it is clear. 

Attend service the preacher's fine sermons to hear, 

And of what he discourses to think ? 

" I suppose 
When you have your ring made I shall see it ; who knows 
But I am a judge of the article, too ? 
Do you really think I should recognize you 
If your picture I saw ? Well ! and what if I do ? 
Are you so ill-looking that you are afraid 
To be looked at, my B. S. ? 

" Quite likely you may 
Have before seen the poem, and possibly, too, 
The first. Both were good ! I think this is, don't you? 
* For the pillow of down where you rest your head, 

I'll pillow my own on your breast instead, 

For love can soften the hardest bed. 
And I know that I love you ! 

And when you grow tired of your marble halls, 

Of your weary life and its gilded thralls, 

Come where the voice of true love calls. 
And see how I love you! ' 



68 STOLEN WATERS. 

' La patience et am^re, mais son fruit est doux ! ' 
Your whole n?vme is there. When am I to see you, 
No lonsjer to draw on the imai^ination 
Of 

" Your 

"Antony?" 

With full realization 
That he at last knew me, I went out, to-day, 
To service as usual. Although I must say 
My heart faster beat, as I entered the porch, 
And also the whole time that I was in church, 
Until its pulsations almost made me faint. 
And colored my cheek with a crimson not paint, 
And made me self- vexed at my want of control 
Of my heart and my face. The vexation of soul 
Did not better it much. And then, not only that, 
But in front all the a.m. my " Antony " sat. 
And by his frequent glances, his witching, and wise, 
Conscious look, and soft smiles, too, whenever his eyes 
Met my own, very plainly told me, if before 
I had doubted, that all mystery was now o'er, 
In his mind, at the least, and was certain he knew 
His Bitter-Sweet now. J^ would like to know, too. 
After such a long time how he came to suspect 
Me to be his unknown correspondent. And yet, 
I wonder, as I've said before, he has not 
Bead the riddle ere this, and discerned the whole plot. 
He sat with his back to the preacher, so I 
Could not, if I would, fail to understand why 
He sat in the front of the choir this a.m.. 
And glanced so persistently at me. But then, 



STOLEN WATEB8. 69 

Although, as I said once before, in his look 

There was consciousness plain, even that I could brook, 

As long as no triumph blent with it. And I 

Must acknowledge I could not, indeed, should I try, 

Take the slightest offence at his actions, or feel 

That any desire I need have to conceal 

My identity longer from him. For if pleased 

And conscious he looked, and convinced, yet, at least, 

There was nothing but sweetness expressed in his face^ 

And of triumph or sarcasm never a trace. 

This was last night's " event," and was also a part 
Of to-day's " observation," which rendered my heart 
And thoughts much more troubled than ever before. 
" Never singly misfortunes do come." I was more 
Annoyed at his guessing than I have expressed. 
And ere I to that became reconciled, pressed 
On my heart was another and far deeper cause 
For trouble, vexation, regret ! And this was — 
But first, I must go back a very short time, 
To a trifling occurrence, which made on my mind 
At the moment no sort of impression, I think, 
And yet, has, it seems, proved to be the first link 
In the chain of events which first made me suspect 
What now I am sure of. I don't recollect 
Exactly how long, but a few weeks ago, 
My Sabbath-school teacher was absent, and so. 
With exception of one or two, all of the class. 
And the superintendent to me came to ask 
If I would a class please to teach for the session ? 
He'd take no refusal, so I took possession 



70 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of a small class of boys near my own. They were lads, 
1 think, of about twelve or thirteen. I had 
In marking the class-book, to ask them their names — 
There were two little boys there whose names were the 

same 
That my Antony's is ; and then, not alone that, 
But they on the same street resided, in fact, 
Or one of them, rather, the other boy being 
A cousin from out of town ; both, though agreeing 
Sufficient in manner and look to be brothers ; 
Were attentive and quiet, while all of the others 
Were restless extremely and vexing. They, too, 
Were very intelligent, and, it is true, 
I took quite a fancy to both, and yet, 1 
Never dreamed that they could be related to my 
Antony, notwithstanding that both street and name 
Were alike. Still, I think this will not seem so strange, 
When I say there are several more of the same 
Name in church. And since then I have seen many times 
The same boy in the seat abreast nearly of mine, 
With a fresh, fair-faced lady appearing to be 
His mother ; though very youn^-looking is she. 
To claim such a large boy as son. 

Well, now I 
Have heard, more than one time of late, by the by, 
That my friend Antony was a married man ; yet 
The report I have never considered correct. 
For various reasons. And first, as the source 
From which it had come was not trusty, of course 
I could not a story believe which was told 
With vagueness and doubt. To be sure he is old 



STOLEN WATERS. 71 

Enovigli to have been some years married ; but then 

One never can judge of the age of such men 

As he is. To look at his face, one would say 

It was one that would never grow old, and to-day 

He might be twenty -five, and from there all the way 

To forty, or forty-five, even. Beside 

All this, too, although to the same church have I 

Every Sabba.th been, nearly a whole year or more, 

I have never seen with him, not either before 

Or after the service, one lady. And so 

'Tis no wonder I doubted his marriage, I know. 

I was early this morn, and I reached there before 
My Antony did ; but the vestibule door 
By some chance was left open ; and when he came in 
The boy I have spoken about was with him. 
The door being directly in front, too, of me, 
Of course when they entered, I could not but see 
Them both very plainly. Alike, rtiuch, forsooth, 
In form, not in face, were those two, man and youth. 
At my first glance at them, the entire bitter truth 
Flashed over my mind in a trice. This and that 
Put together had quickly resolved into fact 
What I'd given no thought to before. I then knew 
How thoroughly blind I'd been all the way through. 

You must know, my dear Journal, the sermon to-day 
May have been Greek or Hebrew, for all 7^ can say — 
That not much of it entered my mind. Howe'er well 
It may have been written or rendered, it fell 
In my case on unheeding ears. Take all that, 
With the just acquired knowledge that he was in fact 



72 STOLEN WATERS. 

At length satisfied who was his Bitter-Sweet ; 

And not this alone, but within a few feet 

He was sitting, his liandsome face, tender and grand, 

Sometimes turned to me, sometimes bent on his hand, 

In a reverie sweet and profound. And I could 

Not have doubted of whom he then thought, if I would. 

Then his soft, tender, smiling, and passionate eye 

Constantly sought my own. Do you wonder that I, 

My dear Journal, quite failed in controlling my heart, 

Or the flush on my cheek? That I felt the blood start 

Through the swift op'ning valves and pulsate through my 

frame 
With rapid and thrilling vibrations, 'till brain 
Was reeling, confused, my brow throbbing with pain, 
And my thoughts in a tumult which it would be vain 
To attempt to describe ? 

I was glad to reach home, 
And at last find myself in my sanctum alone. 
Well ! the first thing I did was to sit down and write 
A reply to the note I had from him last night. 
And in the first place did my best to dispel 
His ideas about my identity. Well, 
Told him plainly, in fact, I thought he did not know 
Me at all (an excusable falsehood, although, 
I am certain) ; and then, somewhat shortly, I fear — 
Couldn't help it, though, actress I'm not, it is clear — 
I asked him how he should suppose I could know 
If mine were the blue eyes he mentioned, or no, 
And presumed there were many a pair, too, that looked 
That way, when he sang ; but that if on his book 
His were placed as they should be, he'd not be aware 
How many looked at him. Then asked him right there, 



STOLEN WATERS. 73 

To make some amends for my crossness, you see, 

And also to see what he'd answer — if he 

Could a place for a meeting appoint, if a time 

I sh ould mention. And as to that hair ring of mine, 

I said he should see it, half promised also 

He should help me the pattern select. He will know 

It is all idle words, I presume. And I then 

Asked saucily what he had read this A.M:. 

Now I wanted to introduce, too, in some way, 

The discovery which I this morning had made, 

Ascertaining thus if my suspicions were true 

In regard to it. And, though I pretty well knew 

He would tell me the truth if I asked him outright, 

Yet I did not know but it possibly might 

Be best to assume that I already know 

What indeed I am hardly assured of. And so 

As follows I wrote : 

" Do you think it would be 
Safe, entirely — a meeting between you and me ? 
Or am I mistaken in thinking that you 
Are a * Benedict ' Antony? Please tell me true. 
But I'm certain I'm not — think I know, too, by sight. 
Your wife and your boy — and I'm sure I am right. 
Does she know of our correspondence ? To-day 
I fancied a little she did. Does she ? Say ! " 

I don't recollect what besides this I wrote ; 
Nothing more, I presume, that is worthy of note. 
"What a day this has been! Looking back now it seems 
Like a long, ever-changing, a vague, troubled dream. 
And my mind is yet quite too confused to resolve, 
Into aught that's like order, the thoughts that revolve, 
4 



74: STOLEN WATERS. 

In such entire chaos through it, and restraint 

Or control 'twould be vain to attempt. I've a faint 

Sense of feeling regi-et that I ever had sent 

My first letter to him, and that ever I went 

To service at that church, or ever saw him, 

And some indignation that I had not been 

Informed of all this weeks ago. And then, too, 

There's a slight thread of deep disappointment runs through 

The whole warp and woof of my mind and my thoughts — 

Disappointment in both; in myself, that I sought 

Any method to know him that custom denied. 

Disappointment in him, that he ever replied 

To the first note I sent him. And yet, there are few 

Men in this age who would not, I fancy. And, too. 

He supposed certainly from the first that I knew 

All there was to be told. As I boastingly wrote 

That I knew all about him, in my second note ; 

And so, he is not much to blame, after all. 

And 'tis useless to mourn what I cannot recall. 

No service this evening in church ; no one went 
Out at all, I believe ; and, as for me, I have spent 
The entire evening here in my room, all alone 
With my thoughts and my journal; and though I must own 
I have not exceedingly happy been here. 
More so elsewhere I could not have been. 

But I fear 

My sleep will be broken. Must stop, and in bed 
Try and rest for a while aching heart, weary head. 



STOLEN WATERS, 75 

December 9th, 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Good evening, my Journal ! I come here once more 
To my sanctum, with drawn shades and tightly closed doors, 
And bright light, and warm fire, with the table before, 
With drawings, and papers, and books littered o'er ; 
And I'll draw up my chair, and will snugly ensconce 
Myself in its depths, and forget for the nonce 
All the cold world without ; will forget all but you. 
My dear Journal, my trusty friend, confidante, too, 
All but you, and the one I am writing of here — 
And events of the last day or two. 

First, my dear. 
You must know that my cousin and I yesterday 
Went a visit to pay, and one which, by the way, 
Has been promised for long. 'Twas to Jersey we went. 
To spend the whole day, although with the intent 
Of coming back home before night. We'd a gay, 
Pleasant time. Left for home rather late, on the way 
Passed my Antony's store, and saw he was not in. 
And we did not enter. Well ! I had not been 
At home very long ere some young people called 
From over the way, and were here nearly all 
Of the rest of the eve. 

Lorette came home with, me, 
Stayed all night, and to-day I went over to B. 
With her for my letter. I felt rather more 
Impatient to have it than ever before. 



76 STOLEN WATEB8. 

As a matter of course. I have more tlian a few 
Correspondents, both ladies and gentlemen, too ; 
But somehow, I think that no letters I ever 
From others received could afford half the pleasure 
That his have ; I'm sure, though I cannot tell why. 
The Colonel's are quite as well written, and I 
No reason can see why his should be so much 
More pleasing than others, unless 'tis the touch 
Of strangeness and mischief, and mystery, too, 
That gives them their charm. 

It has been, it is true, 
Very fine amusement for me all the way through, 
To receive all these letters, and know just the source 
They came from, while certain that he knew, of course, 
Of me nothing at all. And then church to attend, 
From Sabbath to Sabbath, to watch him, and then 
Be sure that he could not, however much he 
Should desire to know who his unknown friend might be ; 
That however he might have examined the face 
Of each lady in church in her relative place, 
That out of so many he could not select 
The one who was in all his thoughts, I suspect, 
Whether singing, or sitting so quiet within 
The alcove's far " corner " secluded and dim. 
As I said, I believe that I never have been 
More desirous of having a letter from him, 
More impatient for time to pass rapidly by. 
And bring me the anxiously wished-for reply 
To my last note to him, and the questions contained 
Within it. 

To feel one must carelessness feign 



STOLEN WATERS. T7 

Wlien burning with restless impatience within, 

May be, very possibly, good discipline 

For the heart and the soul, but makes sad work with temper 

And nerves I am certain. At least I may venture 

To say 'tis with me thus ; suspense I cannot 

And never could calmly endure ; and then, what 

Perhaps made me more anxious than ever to get 

His letter to-day, was, the tinge of regret 

That must linger around all our intercourse, past 

Or to come. That must break all the bonds, first or last, 

That now bind us together ; and make us again 

"What in fact we are yet, and we still must remain — 

Strangers, now and forever. It had, too, one more 

Charm — his letter expected — than any before 

Have possessed. The one, too, that all daughters of Eve, 

Who the dangerous charm have desired to receive, 

Have found, to their cost, its possession replete 

With anguish and pain. " Stolen waters are sweeV^ 

(£itter-Sweet, it should have been), and those who would 

drink 
Of the bitter-sweet potion ought never to shrink 
From the taste of the dregs they are certain to find 
'Neath the sparkle and foam. 

We left home about nine. 
And when Brooklyn we reached found the Carrier had 

been 
But a moment before, and a letter from him 
Lay on the hall-table awaiting B. S. 
I was not very sorry to find it, I guess, 
And 'twas opened and contents perused in a trice. 
'Twas not rerj long, and not nearly as nice 



78 STOLEN WATERS. 

As the last one, I think ; but of course he'd not write 

With as much warmth and pleasantness quite, as he might 

If I had not written so crossly in mine. 

So I've only myself to find fault with, this time. 

'Twas written, indeed, with no little discreetness 

And prudence — began thus : " Antonian Sweetness !" 

And very soon after commencing he wrote — 

" The pair of ' blue eyes ' of which lately I spoke 

I have met very often upturned to my own. 

But more summers than nineteen o'er that head has flown, 

And I at the time was not singing. Did not 

Head at all Sabbath morn ; with my own pleasant thoughts 

I communed. I'm indeed very glad I'm to see 

The ring when you get it ! You dare not let me 

Help the pattern select, though." 

And then farther on : 
" I believe that my caution is not wholly gone, 
But must say I feel safe certainly." And again : 
'* But when I shall realize all the sweet strains 
Of poetry sent, I can then talk much more 
Of safety than I can with ease write before. 
You are not mistaken in fancying me 
To be married, my Bitter-Sweet ! How could you be. 
If the family you know by sight, as you said ? 
And farther, the party does not know, as yet, 
Anything about this correspondence." Then says, 
*' If you shall a time appoint, I can a place.'' 

I felt rather vexed that in this he should sent 
A poem from Byron. I don't think he meant 
Any insult; 'twas not, though, I fancied, just what 
A gentleman should to a lady send — thought 



STOLEN WATERS. 79 

I would write a rebuke in my answer. He'll not 

Send me any more like it, I think. But I ought, 

As I wrote him, perhaps have expected naught better ; 

But I did, and I told him that, too, in my letter. 

'Twas of course, standard, quite, and I doubt not that he 

Never thought of offending, by sending to me. 

My rebuke, though decided, was gentle, I hope. 

At the end of the poem he copied he wrote, 

" No farther deponent doth say, at the present. 

But like most of our popular stories — and pleasant 

Some think, I suppose, as so many read them — 

This is also * continued ' to be !" But yet, send 

The rest think he will not. Then writes at the close, 

" I shall go the next Sabbath to church, I suppose, 

And there in my * corner ' shall think, think of one 

Who is as far from me, because yet unknown, 

As the centre is from the circumf 'rence — my own !" 

Then in closing he says, 

*' I suppose you will get 
This to-morrow, and then I shall also expect 
To hear from B. S. again one of these fine 
Days ! And so keep thy counsel and I shall keep mine; 
That is * entre-nous.' 

" Ever thine, 

« ' Antony.' " 

I remained all the rest of the day o'er to B., 
And answered his letter before I came home. 
I can't give a copy, because I kept none. 
But my note was more pleasing than was the last one. 
I said I was sure that I knew who he thought 
His Bitter- Sweet was. Then I next asked him what 



so STOLEN WATERS. 

Was the style of her hat, how she wore her hair dressed, 
And why he had chosen one out of the rest 
Who was more than nineteen, when I told him before 
That that was my age, just nineteen and no more. 
Then as follows I wrote : 

" I thought you did not read 
Very much the last Sabbath ; but did there, indeed, 
Any hitter compete with the sweet in your thoughts ? 
Or were they with unalloyed dulcitude fraught ? " 
Then in answer to what he had said of the ring, 
And appointment, I wrote, 

" I dare do anything 
But meet you, my Antony ! I am not quite 
So foolish, I think, if I judge myself right, 
As to place myself yet in your power entire ; 
And so you can't blame me if I shall inquire 
Where ihe place may be, ere I shall mention the time. 
And then we will * think of it,' Antony mine ! 
Should you like me much better, think you, my dear friend, 
If you knew who I am ? And would you till the end 
Of two months to come be quite willing to wait 
Ere you see me, if I solve the mystery great ? " 
Then I asked him if tired he was cominor to be 
Of our correspondence ! And hoped he'd write me 
If that was the case. This I said I believe 
Just after the censure I wrote. Oh ! some leaves — 
fragrant leaves from my cousin's geranium — I 
Then gathered ; some dainty white ribbon to tie 
With a " true-lover's knot" the sweet leaves, I then sent 
Dear Lorette to her room to search for, and she went, 
While I wrote in my letter — " I send you some leaves. 
And a kiss hid within ! " 



STOLEN WATERS. 81 

And that was, I believe, 
About all tbat I wrote, or at least all that I 
Now remember. No comments must I, by the by, 
Make this evening — it's getting so late, just as ever; 
The next time, my Journal dear, I will endeavor 
To be more entertaining. But somehow, to-night, 
A task it has been, and an effort to write. 



December ISthy 1863. 

SXJNDAY. 

The night is so cold, and is darksome and dreary, 
It rains, and the wind seems to never be weary. 
The trees toss without, in the bleak wintry blast 
Their bare leafless branches. The chill wind sweeps past 
Just now with a sigh, low and mournful, and then 
With wild sobs, as of anguish, or deep, bitter pain. 
Then rises to moans and shrill shrieks of distress, 
Which, slowly subsiding, grow fitfully less. 
And merge in low sighings once more. And the rain, 
Chill, drenching, and pitiless, splashes the panes 
And keeps on the balcony just underneath 
A restless continual patter. The eve 
Breathes but dampness, discomfort, and darkness ; within 
All is cheerfulness, soft light, and warmth. 

I have been 
Sitting here in my sanctum a little time past, 
And trying to think. But the turbulent blast. 



82 STOLEN WATERS, 

And the sound of the fast-falling rain have dispelled 

All my dreams, which were both " sweet and baneful." Oh, 

well! 
I'll let them all go, and the gloom of the night, 
And, rousing myself, make an efibrt to write 
Of events of the day, and the days that have passed 
So fleetly, my Journal, since chatting here last 
A few evenings ago. 

Well, last Friday, again, 
I took a ride over to Brooklyn ; and when 
I arrived there I found that Lorette was alone, 
And she would not consent to my coming back home, 
At least until night ; so remained there all day, 
And we did have a nice, pleasant time, I must say. 
She is a dear girl, and I like her so much ! 
Pretty, graceful, sweet-tempered, with just a slight touch 
Of sarcasm and wit in her nature ; as steel 
True to those that she loves, whether woe come or weal ; 
Obliging, affectionate, cheerful and sweet. 
In her nature so placid and calm there are deeps 
Of sympathy, passion, and thought only those 
Of the friends who best know her have ever supposed 
To be hidden within her soft heart. 

I need not, 
I presume, my dear Journal, need I ? mention what 
Called me over to Brooklyn again, nor need I 
Assure you I went not in vain. Indeed, I 
Can but say that my Antony is very kind 
To write me so promptly. The one sent this time 
I fancied to be more than usually fine. 
And gave me much pleasure. I'll give here complete 
A copy — commencing — 

" My own Bitter-Sweet ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 83 

" How exceedingly promptly the mails do arrive, 
And bring to us letters most welcome. And I've 
Received yours this morning, with scented sweets fraught — 
How fragrant they are ! And what wonder I thought 
Them rendered, indeed, doubly so, since they've been 
With a pair of sweet lips in close contact. How, then, 
Could I avoid having a taste of them, too ? 
And I did so, in fancy at least, it is true. 
If not in reality, seeming to find 

With the leaves still some lingering sweetness combined. 
Of all the sweet plants, the geranium give me ! 
Did I guess who the blue-eyed young lady might be ? 
I thought that I asked might it be so and so. 
Who I thought that you were do you really know ? 
Well, who, dear B. S. ? You remember you said 
That nineteen bright summers had passed o'er your head, 
But did not say only, or how many more. 
I thought from the fact of your saying before 
How much you had seen of the world, and then, that 
An innocent intrigue's your life — I, in fact. 
Supposed you some older. At what age, indeed. 
Do young ladies commence on a life of intrigue ? 
I cannot describe how she dresses her hair. 
Or what is the style of the hat which she wears. 
My Bitter Sweet, how do you think that of these 
Trifling things a poor fellow can think, when he sees 
A pair of soft, liquid, blue eyes looking through 
His very soul — while they appear to read, too. 
His innermost thoughts? 

" The * French ' sentence I sent 
Will tell you I tliink that there was hitter blent 



84 STOLEN WATERS. 

With the sweet in my thoughts. And could you, dear B. S., 

Read that in my face ? For you know you professed 

To do that in the very first letter you sent. 

' I dare anything do but meet you ! ' Well ! then 

Let me know who you are. I do not suppose you 

So foolish, my friend, as to place yourself too 

Entire in my power, and therefore on me 

You can call, at my own place of business, you see, 

In open day, j ust as all ladies may do. 

And be free, too, from any controlling ^otyV. 

"You 
Mistake in supposing I did not believe 
What you wrote in the first letter from you received. 
Believe you I did ! but I cannot pass by 
That essential, fine quality, caution, which I 
Am sure, ' my own Bitter-Sweet,' you should admire 
In every person in whom you desire 
Or choose to confide. 

"Yes! I shall better far 
Like you, miy dear friend, when I know who you are. 
And if you will tell me, I'll try, with content. 
For two months, or longer, to wait your consent 
To a meeting between us ; but I would much like 
The favor of looking at you, if from quite 
A distance. 

" I must assure you, I regret 
The poem offended ; and though I have yet 
The rest of it written, I'll keep it at home. 
When I ^ weary of our correspondence ' become 
I will tell you at once. And I shall not offend 
You willingly, ever ; and hope to be then 



STOLEN WATERS. 85 

For all past offences forgiven. I'm not 

Perhaps, my B. S., quite so bad as you thought. 

And you do me injustice, too, I must protest, 

In saying you * might have expected no less ! ' 

You certainly did not expect it to be — 

The poem — original, did you, with me ? 

I never have had that opinion extreme 

Of women that some profess — as will be seen 

In Posthumous tirade in Shakspeare's ' Cymbeline,' 

And Dryden's translation of Juvenal's Satire 

On woman — an author that many admire. 

No ! my * charity ' 's almost as vast in extent 

As the universe ; neither would I with intent 

Wound your feelings, believe me ! And so I will keep 

* To be called for '—the poetry — My Bitter-Sweet, 

Or to the Dead -Letter Office will transmit. 

" Is it not hitter cold to-day ? How sweet to sit 
Beside a good fire, listing to the chill wind 
As it whistles without. I will not at this time 
Inflict on you any words further of mine. 
With one good inhalation from your fragrant leaves. 
Until the next time I trust you will believe 
I am still 

" Your own 

" Antony ! 

" To Bitter Sweet." 

That was all ! and I certainly need not repeat 
What I said once before ; that not one I've received 
Ha^more pleasure afforded than this. I believe 
There have been not a great many moments to-day 
That he has been out of my thoughts. 

I must say 



86 STOLEN WATEB8. 

I am pleased ab the way he received my reproof, 

And perhaps I did do him injustice. In truth, 

He has in large measure one virtue most rare 

In this weak sinful world, if all else that is fair 

And good, he is wanting in. Sweet Charity^ 

That no evil doth think ! Of the fair, divine three. 

The rarest and greatest is sweet Charity ! 

I guess he is not such a very bad boy, 

After all ! And so that afternoon was employed, 

A part of it, writing an answer to his. 

And I mailed it ere I returned home. But it is 

Impossible that I should now recollect 

What I wrote in reply to his letter, except 

That I gave him some hopes of receiving next time 

My name and address. 

I've not made up my mind 
If I'll in reality tell him or not. 
I think that I shall — well ! I hardly know what 
I shall do ! I have not at any time thought 
I should tell him at all. I suppose that I ought 
Not have led him to think I would some time disclose 
What I firmly believe that he pretty well knows 
Even now, were it not my intent to do so. 
And it certainly was not. But then — I don't know 
But somehow one thing and another has led 
Me to say what perhaps I ought never have said, 
And promise much more than I meant to fulfil, 
Or perhaps than I mean even yet to do. Still, 
It seems hardly fair, or just either, to him. 
To cheat him like this ; for he's certainly been 
Most kind and most generous all the way through, 



STOLEN WATERS. 87 

And Twant to be quite as hon'rable, too, 

So I reallj scarcely know what I will do. 

And then, there is still one more motive, more strong, 

Perhaps, than all others, which I have been long 

Onl}' half-conscious of in my innermost soul. 

But which, nevertheless, has through nearly the whole 

Of our correspondence so long, been the power 

By which I've been led day by day, hour by hour, 

'Till I am where I am. And that strong motive is 

A desire just for once to place my hand in his. 

To listen just once to his soft, tender tones, 

In kind words intended for my ear alone. 

Just for once, possibly, to be clasped to his breast, 

" With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest ! " 

Only just for a moment ! — Is it very wrong? 

'Twould be something to think of through all my life long. 

'Twould be, I suppose, hungry heart satisfied 

"With sweet fruit from the tree that's forbidden, supplied ; 

Baging thirst quenched by sweet " stolen waters j"* which 

flow 
From a fountain that hides depths most bitter below. 
Oh ! one other thing I remember I wrote — 
That is, in the answer I sent to his note — 
And that was to try the next Sabbath and see 
If he could not discover who B. S. might be. 
I brought from Lorette's some geranium leaves 
To carry to church to-day, morning or eve. 
Intending to let him observe them, while I 
Should note the efiect in his face. By the by, 
I believe he possesses a quite tell-tale face. 

Well ! this forenoon found me in my usual place 



88 STOLEN WATERS. 

In churcla, and he also in his. I forgot 

This morning to carry my leaves, so did not, 

Of course, my experiment try. Mr. S. 

Announced this a.m. that by special request 

He intended this eve to the sermon repeat 

Delivered Thanksgiving day last. From my seat 

I listened, and raised to my Antony's face 

My eyes. At that moment he turned in his place 

And looked down at me. With a glance in which plain 

Was a consciousness, neither, I think, could restrain, 

Our eyes met, for an instant, then each turned away. 

So much for this morning ! 

It rained the whole day, 
And was gloomy enough. But I did not stay home 
This evening, and father and I went alone. 
Just before service opened, my Antony came 
To the front, with some music ; and then he remained 
There for some little time ; and I raised from my book, 
Where they rested, the leaves to my lips, and then looked 
With full, steady glance in the eyes that were bent 
That moment on me. The act told, as I meant 
That it should do ! The light was quite strong, and the 

space 
Between us was short. From my book to my face 
His eyes my hand followed, and as the sweet leaves 
Touched my lips, and he saw what I held, I believe 
A change more decided, and sudden, and plain, 
And transforming, too, o'er a man's face never came 
Than at that moment swept over his. In my eyes 
He looked with a full, searching glance. Slight surprise. 
Satisfaction, and wonder, and pleasure, expressed 
In the soft, lustrous depths of his own. While compressed 



STOLEN WATEMS. 89 

Were his lips, very slightly, in efforts most vain 
To hide the emotion, betrayed yet so plain, 
In jflushed cheek, and dark, sparkling eye. 

As for me, 
I was, I believe, so desirous to see 
The effect of my act upon him, I did not 
My own agitation give one moment's thought. 
Or make, then, the slightest attempt to control 
My heart or my face. And I doubt not the whole 
Confirmation of all he would know he could read 
In my swift-changing cheek, tell-tale eye, and, indeed, 
More than all, in the sweet leaves I held. 

It all passed 
In a moment, and he turned away, too, at last, 
To his seat in the " corner." And how I would like 
To know what he thought, as, with back to the light 
He waited the signal to sing. 

Well! to-night. 
All during the sermon, he sat quite in front, 
And not in the " corner " as he has been wont. 
But he sat looking toward the preacher, this time, 
But frequently glancing from his face to mine. 
And during the last prayer abruptly he turned 
And looked down full at me. How my foolish cheek 

burned ! 
'Neath his glances so earnest, and thrilling, and sweet ! 
My eyes faltered and drooped, quite unable to meet 
The passion in his, as with head on his hand 
He sat motionless quite, I thought looking more grand 
And handsome than ever before. The soft light 
In his fine speaking eye, new, to me at least, quite, 



90 STOLEN WATERS. 

And smile on his lips, both of which added much 
To his ever-fine face, would have given a touch 
Of beauty and sweetness to one that was plain, 
And his made exquisitely pleasing. 'Twere vain 
To think that he was not enlightened. He knows 
His Bitter-Sweet well enough now, I suppose. 
I'm impatient to have his next letter, and see 
What he'll write about it. 

I some notes took of the 
Fine (?) sermon, this evening, and wrote to him too. 
He looked down and saw me ! Will that be a clue, 
When he sees how 'tis dated — " In Church, Sunday Eve"?- 
To induce him with more firmness still to believe 
That I'm his unknown correspondent ? 

My leaves 
I left in my book at church. 

Hark ! it still rains, 
And the chill wind still rattles and beats at the panes. 
The night slowly wanes, and is " cold, dark, and dreary," 
And of writing and thinking, I am, oh, so weary ! 



December 15thy 1863. 

TUESDAY. 

It is evening again, and once more I am here 
For a nice little confab with you, Journal dear, 
Ere I seek the repose I am conscious I need. 
And I ought to do so at this moment, indeed ! 
My watch I will place very close to the spot 
Where my book lies, and when it is twelve I will stop. 



STOLEN WATERS, 91 

To-day we expected from Jersey some friends, 

But they failed to appear. But Lorette this P.M. 

Came over and brought me a letter again 

From him, my " own Antony." And I was glad 

To get it. But, somehow, I always am sad 

After having a letter from him. I cannot, 

I am sure, give the reason for it. My first thoughts 

Are ever most pleasant and sweet, I must own, 

Though the sweet soon dies out, and the bitter alone 

Remains of the stolen draught. 

Notes from him I 
Head again and again, besides keeping them by 
Me the whole time, each one, till the next one arrives ; 
Yet, though they are all I desire, all the time ^ 

My spirits are very uncertain, I find. 
For instance, one day they're remarkably fine 
(Most often the day that his notes are received), 
And the next even indigo 'd make, I believe, 
A white mark upon me. And, too, this state of mind, 
Or temper, or heart, or whatever, in fine. 
It deserves to be called, has been constantly mine, 
And not only of late, but through all of the time 
Yery nearly of our correspondence. I've found 
" The heart cannot always control, or account 
For the feelings which sway it." And also must own 
^ That I think, as I swing on the gate here alone, 
How the sweetness of horehound will soon all die out, 
While the bitter still keeps on and on ! " 

Well, about 
His letter, which lies here this moment by me : 
First—" Sunday, December 13th, '63, 



92 STOLEN WATERS. 

In the ' corner,' " was how it was dated. I thought 
It quite a coincidence — and was it not? — 
That he should that morning have written to me 
In church, and then I, who of course did not see 
Or dream of his having done any such thing, 
Should that very same evening have written to him, 
And I also, in church. I can give here to-night 
A few extracts alone. In one place thus he writes : 
" What an unpleasant day ! yet it may not be quite 
So to those who have hearts that are careless and light. 
Where are you to-day ? Why do I not see you here 
This morning at service as usual, my dear ? " 
(Just as if he had not known so well I was there ! 
Dissembler ! that I, too, was sitting right where, 
Every time that he bent slightly forward, and raised 
From his book or his paper his fine eye, my face 
Was almost the first thing arresting his gaze.) 
And then he went on : 

" We shall have once again 
This evening the Thanksgiving sermon, my friend. 
And you cannot relish that much, I suppose ; 
But then, if we do not, it seems there are those 
Who do, as it is by especial request 
The rev'rend this evening repeats it." 

The rest 
Of that page, and a part of the next, is of no 
Especial importance, so let it all go. 
Near the end of the third page he writes — 

" Do not fear 
To come in and see me, for if I'm not here 
A lady most certainly never need be 
At a loss for excuses for entering the 



STOLEN WATERS. 93 

Public stores, and whicli hundreds habitually 
Are visiting. So there's no reason, you see, 
My Bitter-Sweet, why you can't call upon me. 
Ko ! I'm not getting weary, believe me you will, 
Of reading your letters, but look for them still 
With a great deal of pleasure, and hope and expect 
The favor to have of receiving the next 
With the knowledge of your entire name." 

Then he says, 
" Prayer now has commenced ! I must stop, my B. S., 
You will have difficulty in reading, I guess, 
This letter, and find but a little, I fear. 
To amuse, or instruct, or to benefit here ; 
But anticipate one from me, one of these days. 
Somewhat better." 

I think I've forgotten to say 
This was written in pencil ; in ink, then, he writes : 
" Monday. — How it does rain ! is it not enough, quite. 
To give one the * blues ' ? and the sermon last night 
Might perhaps be the means of assisting it, too ; 
Might it not, my dear friend ? Or how is it with you ? 
But I can this morning do nothing but mope, 
And writing is out of the question. I hope 
To hear from you soon, and am 

" Ever your own 

" Antony. 
" To my Bitter-Sweet ! " 

I might have known 
He'd not say a word in this letter of what 
He saw Sunday eve, though I know he cannot 
Help but be pretty sure who his Bitter-Sweet is. 
But he made a slight guess in one letter of his. 



94 STOLEN WATERS. 

And I answered so crossly he thinks he will let 
Me tell him the whole, when he knows, I expect, 
I wrote him at twilight before Lorette went, 
Although rather briefly, but with it I sent 
The note I had written in church, Sunday eve, 
And which he to-morrow forenoon should receive. 
Upstairs I had just come, I wrote him, to find 
A pattern ; and, stealing a moment of time 
(Notwithstanding I'd visitors waiting below), 
On the floor of my sanctum was then sitting low, 
And, close by the window, was trying to write 
A few lines to him by the fast-fading light. 
I sent him the wished-for address at the close, 
Though I told him above he would not, I supposed. 
If I told him my name, know me then any better 
Than he would do before the receipt of my letter. 
As he said he ne'er knew how a lady was dressed, 
I did not see how I could tell him the rest. 
And then, just to tease him, I asked him when he 
Expected to know who I am — what of me 
He thought. Also wrote that to service I went 
On last Sabbath morning as usual ; and sent 
At the close of the letter my love to my friend, 
I shall look for his answer on Thursday A.M. 
I am glad I have not any longer to go 
All the way o'er to B. for his letters, although 
He has been very kind indeed, always to write 
Just when I requested, and so that I might 
Have never to go there in vain. 

Well, to-night 
My brother and wife were in town, and here, too, 
To dinner this evening. Just twelve ! I am through. 



8T0LEN WATERS. 95 

December 17thy 1863. 

THURSDAY. 

How stormy a day ! from the earliest dawn 
The clouds have bent low, swiftly showering down 
The soft, fleecy snow-flakes. All nature around 
Seems just to have donned a fresh mantle of white, 
So spotlessly pure, and so downy and light — 
So dazzlingly lovely, this " beautiful snow " — 
The air filling all, shrouding all things below, 
With a soft-falling vesture more dainty and fair 
Than any fine lady can e'er hope to wear. 
Yet this white, vestal raiment, unsullied by aught 
Unlovely or tainting — oh, what a sad thought ! 
This snow that's " so pure when it falls from the sky, 
Must be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by, 
Must be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet, 
'Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street." 

This Say has been one of sensations, to me 
Katlier new and peculiar ; have half seemed to be 
In a sweet, hapi)y dream all day long. I presume 
My spirits will be at their lowest ebb soon. 
Quite likely to-morrow. There always must be 
With them a reaction ; and one day to me 
Of light-hearted joy ousness, pleasure, and glee, 
Is sure to result in depression and gloom ; 
And this no exception will be, I presume. 
By halves I do nothing ; 'and when I am gay 
No one can be livelier ; and, I must say, 



96 STOLEN WATERS. 

That when I'm depressed, no one ever could be 

In the depths of despondency lower than me ; 

And it takes such a slight, such a small, trifling thing 

To make me unhappy, on one hand, or bring 

A smile to my lips, and a light to my eye — 

Joy and glee to my heart. 

Very happy was I 
To perceive it to be in the usual clear 
And well-known handwriting of Antony dear 
The note was addressed which was handed to me, 
When I this forenoon the door opened to see 
The carrier there in the pitiless storm — 
The feathery snow-flakes all over his form 
So lavishly showered — he looked almost like 
A snow-bank himself. With unusual delight 
I ran in the parlor at once with my note. 
To read, all alone, what my Antony wrote. 
He's getting impatient, despondent, some, too ! 
And I cannot wonder much at it, 'tis true. 
I have kept him now quite a long time in suspense 
Had no little amusement at his sole expense. 
But patient he's been, indeed, nevertheless; 
Much more so than I should have been, I confess; 
And he does well deserve the reward, I must say, 
Which he'll get with the letter I wrote him to-day. 
But first I've a few words to say of his note ; 
'Twas not very long, and I fancied he wrote 
A little despondingly, as I believe 
I have said once before. First he writes : 

"I received 
Yours this morning, and your address also with it, 
And shall govern myself in accordance therewith." 




STOLEN WATERS. 97 

That is all that he says about that. Next replies 
To some trifling inquiries I made, and then wi-ites 
Shortly : 

" How can I tell, think you, when I expect 
To know you? To tell you the truth, I suspect 
That I never shall know you at all, as I do 
Not have any means to Jfind out, and as you 
Do not choose to inform me. And then, as to what 
I think of you — think that you wish — do you not ? 
To have some amusement, occasionally. 
By a few letters writing, perhaps just to see 
What answers there may be returned. Possibly, 
That unsatisfactory oft they may be ; 
But you must remember that I am still quite 
In the dark, as to knowing to whom I now write. 
To-day I am feeling especially blue. 
But the reason for it cannot give ; and can you f 
I am pleased to find you are so punctual in your 
Attendance at church, my B. S., I am sure ! 
But where do you sit, and what mean you to wear 
The next Sabbath morning if you should be there ? 
I hope that you had an agreeable seat 
On the floor of your * sanctum,' my own Bitter-Sweet, 
When writing to me. How would you, at the time, 
Have liked some one to lean on ? and did you then find 
The pattern you sought ? Guess your friends must have 

thought 
It took you a long time indeed, did they not ? " 
And then right after this quite abruptly he writes : 
** * And these are the questions I ask day and night, 
Must my soul never once taste such exquisite delight ? ' " 
5 



98 STOLEN WATERS. 

Then witli sarcasm writes, that he thinks it indeed 

Must be most entertaining his letters to read ; 

But should judge 'twould as much satisfaction bestow 

Some to read from an old letter- writer, as those 

Most brilliant effusions were never addressed 

To any one person, and must be confessed 

That his were to no one, or what was to him 

The same thing, an unknown. And then says in closing : 

" But the fact is, that I can to-day nothing do 

But growl ; and for fear of inflicting on you 

More of this, my ill nature, will bid you adieu, 

With the kindest regards to my own Bitter-Sweet, 

Of 

" Your 

" Antony." 

Then enclosed were two neat 
New Year's cards ; and mthin the small plain space of one 
Was ^^ Afntony " printed, and prettily done; 
The other was blank, and on that one I wrote 
^^ Sitter- Sweet,'''' and shall send it back with my next note. 
I early this afternoon sat down to write 
A reply to his last, and intended to-night 
To mail it, but it was so stormy all day 
'Twas impossible I should go out. 

I must say 
That when I commenced I'd not given one thought 
As to whether or not I should tell him of what 
He'd become so desirous to know. I well knew 
By the tone of his last that it never would do 
To play with him longer ; and that I must write 
And give him at once the entire truth outright ; 



STOLEN WATERS. 99 

Or write him no more. But they've now come to be — 

His letters — almost necessary to me. 

At least I should miss them, oh ! so very much, 

If I ceased to receive them. And therefore, with such 

A feeling or thought uppermost in my mind, 

When to write I began, is it, dear Journal mine, 

Any wonder that all scruples were for the time 

Swept completely aside, as with fond, eager hand, 

I raised to my lips the forbidden draught, and, 

While quaffing the waters so sweet at the brim 

Of the cup, quite ybr^o^ that far down, deep within 

The dregs, I a bitter might find to be more 

Intense than in any glass I had before 

Attempted to drain ? 

So my Journal, you see, 
In the letter which lies on the table by me, 
" Signed, sealed," 7iot " delivered," my dear friend will find 
His suspicions confirmed, and at last have his mind 
From all farther doubt and uncertainty free. 
How many a thought sent to me there will be 
Between the receipt of this note and the time 
For service on Sunday forenoon. As to mine — 
Oh ! ray thoughts are constantly with him, to-day, 
And all other days, in fact, now and alway. 
And I'm more impatient, too, than I can tell 
For next Sabbath morning's arrival. 

Oh, well— 
The clock's striking ! hark ! can it be it is twelve ? 
A few words of my letter, and then I am through, 
I wrote at some length, and quite charmingly, too, 
I flatter myself ! or I certainly meant 
It should be quite as pleasing as any I'd sent. 



100 STOLEN WATERS. 

I told him that I had commenced "just for fun," 

This, our correspondence, some time since begun ; 

That I'd had no intentions, in fact, any time, 

Notwithstanding my various promises fine, 

To allow him to have any knowledge of me 

He had not already ; that is, unless he 

Should himself ascertain who his B. S. misjht be. 

I thought hardly fair would it be, though, to him, 

To treat him like that, as he'd certainly been 

Very kind, and quite hon'rable all the way through ; 

And so to his honor I'd trust in this, too. 

Then I told him what 'twas my intention to wear 

The next Sunday morning, and also just where 

I should sit — and that is, only one seat ahead 

Of Mrs. , his wife, at her right hand. Then said- 

*' It will, of course, storm the next Sabbath, but I 
Shall be there." And so will he, too, by the by, 
I imagine. 

I wrote I did have on the floor 
Of my " sanctum " an easy seat, when I before 
Wrote to him ; but I would have indeed greatly liked 
To had some one to lean upon ; but, if it might 
Have been that the only one on whom I care 
To lean for support had been present, that there 
No occasion would been for my writing. 

Oh, dear! 
I'm so very fatigued I must stop now and here, 
And 1/iave all the rest until next Sunday night, 
When perhaps I may have something pleasant to wiite. 



STOLEN WATERS. 101 



December 20th, 1863. 



SUNDAY. 



Sabbath, evening once more, and it's now half-past ten. 
I've been sitting right here for an hour, with my pen 
In my hand, and my journal wide open, upon 
The table before me, the day that's just gone 
Reviewing, and trying to bring into form 
Its events and emotions, in order to write 
With coherent distinctness of them here to-night — 
Of a day that has been one long dream of delight — 
This Sabbath, the twentieth day of December, 
Eighteen sixty-three ! 

But the fast-paling embers 
In the grate are now giving me warning, indeed, 
My writing to do with all possible speed, , 
Or be left in the cold. And so I will proceed. 

When I wrote here last Thursday, I spoke of the storm 
Which was raging without, and the next (Friday) mom 
It had not much abated ; but, turning to rain, 
Made horrible travelling. I waited in vain. 
Almost the whole day, for a pleasanter state 
Of weather and walking, until 'twas so late 
I feared that if I should much longer delay, 
That he would not my letter receive yesterday. 
So with rubbers and water-proof nicely equipped. 
Regardless of rain or of slush, on my trip 
A few blocks farther down at length started to mail 
My last letter to him, that he might without fail 



102 STOLEN WATERS. 

Keceive it before this a.m. And as there 

Is a post-office box near Ed. Vamey's store, where 

I have often deposited letters before, 

I thought that to it I would trust just once more. 

I went in to see him a moment as I 

Wished to purchase some trifles — and passing right by. 

I don't like him, though, much, and his manner I think 

Is too tender by half, and I always, too, shrink 

From the touch of his hand, or the glance of his eye. 

And yet I am sure that I cannot tell why. 

I rarely shake hands with him, did, though, to-day, 

And he held mine so long that I drew it away 

Somewhat rudely, I fear, did my errands as soon 

As I could and came home. And he thinks, I presume, 

I am haughty and cold ; but I cannot help it. 

And I should like him better, indeed, I admit, 

If he treated me somewhat less warmly. But there ! 

Let him. pass ! 

This bright morning was brilliant and fair 
As one could desire. Just a light depth of snow, 
Newly-fallen, quite covered the ice formed below. 
By the alternate storms of a few days ago, 
And gleamed purely white 'neath the warm, ardent glow 
Of the bright morning sun ; and like huge bridal loaves. 
In the Park the large flower-mounds temptingly rose. 
While the boughs overhead drooped beneath the soft weight 
Of their dainty, translucent, and glittering freight. 
Not a cloud to be seen in the whole arch of blue 
Rendered perfect an otherwise exquisite view. 

Of course I was promptly at church this a.m., 
And my Antony. Gertrude went also, and when 



STOLEN WATERS. 103 

From the rack she had taken a hymn-book, I then 

Discovered what I had not noticed before — 

And then not until she was looking it o'er — 

A small piece of paper inserted between 

The leaves of the book. In a moment, I ween, 

It flashed o'er my mind what it was ; and I knew 

Very well that my Antony placed it there. Drew 

It forth, and I found my suspicions confirmed. 

For on one side I read " JBitter- Sweet ^'' and then turned 

And the same on the other side found written, too, 

Placed there at rehearsal last eve, I conclude. 

I think 'twas indeed scarcely marked by Gertrude ; 

At least she said nothing about it. 

I placed 
The paper at once in my muff, at his face 
Glancing up, and he, too, was then looking at me, 
But at once turned away, so I know not if he 
Had noticed my finding the paper or not. 
He sat at the front to-day, just as I thought 
And expected he'd do — both this morning and eve. 
But my pen can but fail to describe, I believe, 
What I then saw and felt if I make the attempt, 
I think I must own that I did not repent, 
Or do now, in the slightest degree, having sent 
In my last the desired information, which must 
Have been most gratifying to him ; and I trust 
As much pleasure gave him as I thought that it might ; 
To hope gave reality, putting to flight 
All doubt and suspicion. 

He did not sit quite 
At the front of the choir either morning or night, 



104 STOLEN WATERS. 

But sitting just so he could look down at me, 

With, his face half in shadow, and half in light, he 

Sat leaned slightly forward, his cheek in his hand, 

His head resting sometimes 'gainst the pillar so grand 

Which was close by his seat; his eye seeking my own 

With a glance from which all of the bitter had flown, 

And only the sweetness remained. And, indeed ! 

His look volumes spoke ; in his face I could read 

A depth and intenseness of passion I ne'er. 

In my life, in another face saw. And whene'er 

I ventured to look in his fine speaking eye. 

So dark, deep, and lustrous with tenderness, my 

Foolish heart with its tremulous beatings almost 

Seemed its bounds to be bursting, while through it a host 

Of fancies both tender and sweet swiftly passed, 

Till cheek flushed and eye drooped 'neatli his glances at last, 

To be again timidly raised, when I deemed 

I had courage to meet the soft love-light which beamed 

So plainly in his ; and shone over his face, 

And, leaving on every feature its trace, 

Kendered each of them, even the attitude, too. 

Mutely eloquent of the strong passion which threw 

Its charm over me as well, 'till in my own 

An answering sweetness and tenderness shone ; 

I trembled with rapture and every nerve thrilled 

With emotion I could not controlled had I willed. 

And which was too new, and too transient, too sweet — 

A shadow of happiness much too comjilete. 

To cause me a moment's desire to repress. 

Or endeavor to check what gave me, I confess, 

Such intense and exquisite delight. So I quaffed 

With eagerness, reckless, impatient, great draughts 



STOLEN WATERS. 105 

Of the tenderness, passion, or love, I were blind 
Not to read in the eye constantly seeking mine, 
While he motionless sat nearly ail of the time 
Except when he sang. 

I have flirted before, 
Quite desp'rately also, as well as with more 
Than one gentleman, handsome and clever, refined, 
Intelligent too ; with large hearts, and fine minds, 
And who liked pretty well insignificant me. 
But yet, this I must say : that I never did see 
In any man's face so much passion expressed. 
As was written this morning, it must be confessed. 
So plainly in his, my dear friend's ; and I thought 
His had been very eloquent ere this, but naught 
To compare with its speaking to-day. 

Well! to-night 
He also was there, as I said, the same light 
In his eye that had shone there this noon, and as then. 
Soft eyes now looked love to eyes speaking again. 
The evening was but a complete repetition 
Of to-day. In the same place he sat, same position, 
And sent to me glances as tenderly sweet, 
Which my eye just as vainly as then sought to meet 
With aught like composure. No thought did he seem 
To have but for me ; and I, too, in a dream 
Of pleasure delicious gave all mine to him, 
Enshrining each smile my heart's chambers within. 
And paid to the sermon, I fear, little heed. 
Wicked girl that I am ! But how could I, indeed, 
Beneath such a spell, such a rain of soft looks, 
With before me a face like a wide-open book, 
5* 



106 STOLEN WATERS. 

Written over with passionate ardor, each page — 

How could there aught else my attention engage ? 

I suppose I am wicked — I know that I am ! 

Wliy am 7" not like others? How is it I can 

With the usual routine be never content, 

The same commonplace, every-day, tame events? 

Why must I forever be looking beyond 

Tor something beside, and which when at last found 

Does not satisfy, but still urges me on 

To new aspirations, and new flights of hope 

Which in turn disappoint ? 

By the way, in my note — 
The last one I sent — I requested he'd write 
Me a letter in church or to-day or to-night. 
And give it to me after service. No one 
But father and I went this eve, and alone 
Was he, too, " wy own Antony'''' — "she"''' did not come 
This morning or evening. 

When service was o'er 
He hastened downstairs, and just outside the door 
He passed me — not stopping — but slipped in my hand — 
Which touched his one instant — a note, and then ran 
Down the street next the church, and I, too, hastened home. 
Father went right downstairs, and I thus left alone 
Did not pause to remove hat or cloak, but beneath 
The dim light in the hall, I indeed scarcely breathed 
As with eager impatience I hastily read 
Its contents. 'Twas short, and it had at the head 
" Sunday morn, in the ' corner ' ! " Began in this way : 
" My own Bitter-Sweet ! 

" What a bright lovely day ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 107 

You liave lost all your powers prophetic, forsooth ! 
Well, well ! do my eyes now behold you, in truth ? 
And have I been gazing indeed in the deeps 
Of the eyes soft, cerulean of my Bitter-Sweet ? " 
Then he told me that he had been reading my face, 
And that a few lines strongly marked he could trace ; 
But his feeble brain could not endure it this time 
For a perfect analysis. But would some time 
Like to read it to me. Then abruptly he said 

" Behind Mrs. 's big hat why keep hiding your head ? 

Did you find anything between some of the leaves 
Of the psalm-book to-day ? 

" I suppose Christmas Eve 
I shall be here at church. Perhaps B. S. will, too. 
I wish I could get a good chance to with you 
Converse ! So you did intend, plainly, I see, 
To have some amusement, and disappoint me ! 
You rogue ! I shall give you a tiny-sized piece 
Of my mind when I see you. 

"The sermon has ceased. 
* Let us pray ! ' 

« Antony." 

Underneath h,€ writes then, 
" I intended to give you this note, this a.m. 
But did not have a chance." 

That is all, I believe ; 
And this, too, must finish my record this eve, 
For my fire has some time since entirely died out, 
I'm quite chilled, and have caught a severe cold, no doubt. 



108 STOLEN WATERS, 

December 24:th, 1863. 

THURSDAY. 

To-night's Christmas Eve ! and to me it has been 
Quite a pleasant one, also. 

But first, I wrote him, 
A letter on Monday, to ask if he thought 
To see me this afternoon he could come up — 
As I should be housekeeper. Ma at that time 
Expecting to go up to T., changed her mind, 
However, and so the next day I was forced 
To write him that he must not come up, of course, 
I asked and expected an answer to-day. 
But did not receive it ; but had yesterday 
A reply to my Monday's note, writing this way : 
** I think, without doubt, I'll be likely to go 
Up town the next Thursday p.m., and if so 
Perhaps find B. S." 

So it seems he would come 
If I had not written him not to. In one 
Place he says : 

" Are you really hitter ^ or sweet, 
Or both ? Which predominates ? Or are they each 
Divided quite equally ? If so, are they 
Separately located, confined unto a 
Particular place, or are they diffused through 
The system, and so intermingled the two 
Pine properties cannot be separately 
Distinguished. Just possibly, now, I might be 



STOLEN WATERS. 109 

Enabled to answer the question — who knows ? — 
If women, like apples, were eaten. Suppose 
Me taking a bite out your cheek." 

He went on 
With much more in the same style, and then farther down 
Writes — 

** Christmas is coining ; the Eve will find me 
Stowed away in the corner.' 

Abruptly, then, he 
To a close brings his letter, by saying he's been 
Several times interrupted, and now was again 
Called off, so would close that he might get it in 
To the office that night, 

I have been this P.M. 
Down town — sister Fannie and I — got my ring. 
And really think it a quite pretty thing. 
I meant my dear friend should have been the first one 
To clasp in his own my hand with the ring on. 
But was foolish enough to have placed it on my 
Higlit hand, and a gentleman passing us by 
On Broadway, paused to speak, and ere I was aware 
I had been shaking hands with my brother. 

As there 
Was service in church to-night, all of us went ; 
My Antony too, was of course there, and sent 
Me many a glance, most impassioned and fond ; 
To each one of them all my heart could but respond 
In tremulous thrills of delight. Oh ! what power 
That man has o'er me ! Day by day, hour by hour, 
It seems to increase, and I wonder where lies 
The magic ! Is it in the glance of his eyes, 



110 STOLEN WATERS. 

The smile on his mouth, or the exquisite tone 

Of his fine voice, although heard in singing alone ? 

Or is there a charm still more potent than all 

His soft smiles and fond looks ? The bewildering thrall 

Which the tempter throws over us, when at our feet, 

He lays the " forbidden fruit " lusciously sweet. 

Alas ! I am fearful that charm is more deep, 

More entrancing, ecstatic, and powerful, too, 

Than all others can be. 'Tis, I fear, but too true, 

We're all nearly related to fair Mother Eve. 

Young and frail, she was only too easy deceived, 

Dra^sins: down all her children in one fatal fall. 

Ah ! " The trail of the serpent is over us all." 

Eve, tempted, she yielded, and Adam when tried 

Proved that he'd no more strength than his lovely, weak 

bride. 
Then why should we hastily, rashly condemn 
Their children for faults they inherit from them ? 

Well ! the voluntary which was given to-night 
Was, " I know my Redeemer doth live." It was quite 
A nice thing in itself, and was rendered, I own. 
Exquisitely — sung by soprano alone. 
She stood somewhat back from the front of the choir. 
And with self-possessed grace, which I ^pould but admire,, 
She sang the whole piece, then a moment paused, when 
She had finished, as if about singing again. 
Slowly turning at last, glided back to her seat. 
While the tones of the organ, so low and so sweet. 
Grew fainter and fainter, then slowly died out, 
Until only the echo remained. I've no doubt 



STOLEN WATERS. IH 

There were few in the church could help feeling, to-night, 
That " music hath charms " ! 

• And the sermon was quite 

As fine a one also as ever I've heard 
Mr. S. yet deliver ; I think not a word 
Was lost to my mind, notwithstanding, too, that 
A little way from me my Antony sat. 
All conspiring to render the evening to me 
Quite as pleasant as I could desire it to be. 
By the way, I did feel amused, somewhat, this eve, 
At what little Harry remarked (I believe 
I mentioned, some time since, my sister had come 
On from Boston — of course bringing also her son), 
And to-night Harry said, after we had come home, 
" That man that was up in the choir looked at me 
Nearly all of the time ! " 

Little innocent ! he 
Took all to himself the sweet looks which were meant 
For another — one who in return for them sent 
Looks as warmly impassioned. He never once thought 
There was greater attraction beside him than aught 
He could offer, to cause that deep, soft sparkling eye 
So often to turn toward us. 

By the by, 
I wrote a short note to my friend, just before 
I went out, to give him after service was o'er ; 
And succeeded in showing it to him, although 
None but him I think saw it. But J needed no 
Stronger proof that he did, than the soft, but faint glow 
Which sufi*used his cheek instantly, also the quick 
Litelligence beaming from eyes that a trick 



112 STOLEN WATERS. 

Have, I fancy, of playing the traitor to what 
Within his mind passes sometimes. He is not 
Aware, I presume, what a traitorous face 
He carries with him, or how plain I can trace 
In its changes, at times, his emotions and thoughts. 

I was nearly or quite half-way home, ere he caught 
Me and dext'rously slipped in my hand, as he passed, 
A note — and which proved the reply to my last, 
Which I looked for to-day — in return for the one 
He found in my hand. It was quietly done. 
And none of those with me I'm sure saw the act. 
He turned down the street we'd just passed, which in fact 
Was his own. 

And his letter was pleasant and kind. 
It commenced " 3Iy own Sitter- Sweet! " — this underlined- 
" Christmas Eve. In the ^ corner,' " 'twas dated, and on 
A small sheet of music was written. He found 
That he was mistaken in thinking, he said, 
That he had there some paper, and so must instead 
Use this " National Hymn." He did not till this morn 
Have my letter, as he out of town had been gone, 
So in season for me to receive it to-day 
He could not reply. I've forgotten to say 
His letter with kind Christmas wishes began. 
He writes — 

" I imagine I noticed your hand 
This eve to your face ; and I thought it indeed 
Quite pretty, although too far off to perceive 
It very distinctly. Do you recollect 
What Komeo says to the fair Juliet, 



STOLEir WATERS. 113 

Wheii he at the casement has just perceived her, 

In the scene in the garden ? * Oh, would that I were 

A glove on that hand, that I might touch that cheek !' " 

Then of various trifles he goes on to speak, 

And writes just at closing, 

" The young ladies wish 

To know what I'm writing. I tell them it is 
A love letter, and they are anxious to see. 
In your rear, rolling up her eyes here, is Miss T., 
As if she thought she could read mischief in me, 

And indeed I — 

" The sermon is now at an end. 
" Your 

" Antony." 

This little note from " my friend,'' 
And written in pencil on " National Hymn," 
Creased in folding, and soiled slightly, too, having been 
Held some moments within his dear hand moist and warm, 
Brings before we with such force the face and the form 
Of my dear, dearest friend, that it now almost seems 
As if he were here in reality. Dreams 
From which I awaken to find I'm alone. 
That the charm of his dear— fancied— presence has flown, 
To find there is now nothing left in my grasp 
But a piece of the most seuseless paper ; yet clasped 
With fond warmth in the hand which in passing to-night 
For a moment touched his. 

Am I dreaming tho', quite ? 
If I am not I should be, and so I must say, 
Christmas Eve, fare-thee-well, and good-night to to-day. 



114: STOLEN WATERS. 

December 27th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Stayed home all day Christmas, and most of the day 
I sat in the parlor with book or crochet, 
And in every stitch of the tidy I wrought, 
I fastened of him a most kind, friendly thought. 
With bright anticipations of when we should meet, 
If that time ever comes — every hour was replete, 
And the day swiftly speeded. And yet I was blue 
As any one could be, and all the eve too. 
Although I went out. Passed a quite pleasant eve ; 
But came home out of humor, somewhat, I believe, 
And my Christmas closed with a hot storm of tears. 

'Twas pleasant to-day, notwithstanding my fears 
To the contrary ; but I can't say it has been 
An exceedingly bright one to me. I saw him 
At service this morning, of course, and to-night ; 
But he — naughty boy — all the forenoon, sat quite 
Far back in the corner. I thought, though, that he 
Was writing, but guess he was not. This eve " she " 
Was there ; and my father and I went alone. 
I carried a note, which to him having shown, 
He hastened downstairs soon as service was o'er — 
Our seat is quite near to the vestibule door — 
And so I was out in the entry, before 
Scarcely any one else was. . And he was there, too. 
As soon as myself, and he walked part way through 



STOLEN WATERS. 115 

To the door, by my side, as he took from my hand 
The note which was in it ; but he — ugly man ! — 
Gave me none in return. I was vexed enough, too 1 
And I did pinch his hand just a little, 'tis true, 
When I found it was empty. I wished I had not 
Have given him mine, then ; but never once thought 
He would fail to give me one as well the same time, 
And I think that he might ! 

I wrote him in mine, 
To come out and see me next Tuesday p.m. — 
My mother is going to Tarrytown then. 
If she don't change her mind. 

I believe I am quite 
Too cross, or too blue, or despondent, to write 
Any more, so my book I will close for to-night. 



December ZOth, 1863, 

WEDNESDAY. 

Monday was to me one of the most wretched days 
That I ever have passed, I think. In the first place, 
I felt as unhappy as could be, and then 
To Brooklyn was forced to go in the a.m. 
And ere I arrived there it started to snow, 
Ard continued the rest of the day, and also 
A part of the next. I reached home about noon, 
And Fannie was going to Tarrytown soon. 
And wished me to accompany her, I, 'tis true, 
Did not like to at all ; but then, what could I do ? 




116 STOLEN WATERS. 

I had no excuse, she insisted, and I, 

As a matter of course, could do naught but comply. 

And so one more brief note to my " own Antony," 

I wrote ere I started, and took out with me, 

To mail on the way. And I told him that he 

Must not come out on Tuesday, as I had to go 

Out of town for a few days, against my will, though, 

But that I should be, without much doubt, at home 

Next Thursday p.m., and if so, be alone, 

And then should be happy to see him. I know 

Scarcely what, when he reads it, he'll think. Somehow, 

though, 
I felt that he cared not to come ; yet each time 
That we have arranged it, the fault has been mine 
That 'twas not carried out — for he every time wrote 
He should come at the time I had named in my note. 
Yet the letter I sent him that day was somewhat 
Independent, at least — he could come, or need not — 
I made him perceive, just which pleased him to do. 
And then wrote ; 

" If you come, though, I shall not tempt you, 
I think, from allegiance unto your wife. 
I imagine, although, 'twould not be, in your life, 
^h.Q Jirst time it had swayed." 

We called in at a store 
On our way to the depot, and there right before 
Me a gentleman stood I was introduced to 
On last Christmas evening ; who then, it is true, 
Paid me some attention ; but I've never thought 
Of him since, and I certainly that day did not 
Feel at all like conversing with strangers, that I 
Cared nothing about. So I'd not meet his eye, 



STOLEN WATERS. 117 

Though lie made, Fannie said, every effort he could 
To attract my attention; but did him no good. 
I knew he was there, so would give him no glance 
Of recognition, warranting any advance 
On his part. 

We had quite a time getting out 
To T., for the snow gained so fast 'twas about 
All the cars could then do to get through, and 'twas late 
When at last we arrived at my brother Frank's gate. 
The next day my depression of spirits was gone, 
So I had a nice time, notwithstanding my strong 
Aversion to going. 

Came home this p.m. ; 
Found letters awaiting me, one from my friend — 
'Twas short, but most kind, and he said he had been 
Nearly " driven to death " for the wliole day, and then 
Was completely fagged out ; but had j ust snatched a few 
Brief moments to tell me, and hurriedly, too, 
That he should go up town the next afternoon 
If pleasant, about two o'clock, or as soon 
Thereafter as might be, according to my 

j Instructions. I sent, since I came home to-night, 

I Him a letter, or rather a word — it was not 

I Hardly worthy the name of a letter, as what 

I I wrote in it mei'ely was " Come ! " and the date — 
Though I signed it, of course. It was getting quite late 

I When I went out to mail it. A man spoke to me, 

i And frisrhtened me so that I think I shall be 

I More careful in future about going out 
In the evening alone ; I said nothing about 
It, because" no one knew that I went. 



118 STOLEN WATERS, 

Mother goes 
Up to T. in the morning, if pleasant, and so 
As my sister remained there, and Gertrude will be 
To-morrow at school, of course, I cannot see 
As there will be anything now to prevent 
Our meeting at last. 

Can it be my dear friend 
I shall see in one more day ? For once have him, too, 
To my own self entirely ? I cannot, can you, 
My Journal, dear ? yet realize it is true ! 
I have anticipated with so much of deep 
And passionate longing his coming — in sleep 
Have fancied him near me so often, to wake 
And find it a dream, an illusive mistake. 
That now that the time is so nearly at hand, 
When my dreams shall become all reality, and 
My hopes in fruition be merged, I cannot 
Hardly give credence unto the sweet, happy thought, 
Lest to-morrow I waken to find it but a 
Delusion, which morning light scatters away. 



December 31s^, 1863. 

THURSDAY. 

How can I write down the events of this day ? 
Where shall I begin, and oh, what shall I say ? 
How can I describe what it's been unto me — 
This last day of the year — one ever to be 
Set apart ? And " one brimful of sensations new. 
And deep, sweet, and thrilling ; of sensations, too, 



STOLEN WATERS. 119 

Known but once in a lifetime." I think, too, that he 
Will never forget it ; and that it must be 
To him, even, man of the world as he is, 
A day of some import ; and that I in his 
Thoughts to-night can but have a conspicuous place. 
As for me, I can now close my eyes, and his face 
Seems right here before me. 

He came this p.m. 
About two o'clock — not much later — and when 
He passed by the window I saw him, and so 
To open the door I made all haste, although 
He yet had not rung, and he stood before me, 
Just as handsome and noble as ever ; and we 
Shook hands in a matter-of-fact, friendly way. 
No confusion on either side ; and I must say, 
Notwithstanding that we to-day met under such 
Circumstances peculiar, there was not a touch 
Of embarrassment shown in his manner, and I 
None experienced, certainly! even if my 
Cheek was flushed with excitement, my heart beating fast. 
With joy at his presence, long hoped for, at last 
In its fulness possessed. 

In the parlor we passed — 
And sat down by the grate, in an easy-chair, I, 
He seating himself in another near by, 
Directly in front of, and facing, too, mine. 
Of various matters we talked for some time, 
And I found my dear friend to be quite as refined, 
As intelligent, tQo, well informed, and as kind, 
As pleasing in manner, in voice, and in speech — 
As I had imagined him. Indeed ! in each 



120 STOLEN WATERS. 

He went far ahead of my fancy. I find 

He is thoroughly gentle, too, which, to my mind, 

Is the most potent charm which a man can possess. 

I always have thought he would be, I confess, 

Sarcastic somewhat, but I never saw less 

Of that than in him who was with me to-day. 

And then he has, too, I can't less do than say, 

The most fascinating, caressing, nice way, 

Of any man which I have known heretofore. 

And I'm certain that no one has e'er made me more 

Intensely, unspeakably happy than he 

Did to-day, when he sat here conversing with me. 

I would I were able to write it all here, 

Each motion and act, every word that his dear 

Lips uttered ; but that I can't do, it is clear. 

It is all indistinct as a last evening's dream, 

And I into form could not draw it, I ween. 

I write a few words, and, ere I am aware, 

I forget what I'm doing, almost forget where 

I am, for the time, and my pen is laid down. 

And I, in a reverie sweet and profound, 

Live over again every moment of tbe 

Two brief fleeting hours, so delicious to me, 

So full of exquisite, entrancing delight, 

A spell which yet rests on me. 

I cannot write ! 
I do not know how ; I cannot language find 
To express what I wish — to convey from my mind. 
To this paper insensate, the memory of what 
Was so pleasant in passing. I'm sure I cannot 
Forget it, as long as I live, and so why 
Should I care about having it written ? Yet I 



STOLEN WATERS. 121 

Suppose rather pleasant 'twould be, by and by, 

These leaves of my life to turn backward, and read 

Of a fancy — it is nothing deeper, indeed, 

I am certain — and which may have long since burnt out, 

And a memory, that half-forgotten, no doubt, 

Be all that is left of the ashes. I'll try 

And write what I can, though it should, by the by, 

Be somewhat incoherent. 

As saying before. 
Of various things we conversed, and went o'er 
Some points, too, of our correspondence. Pretty much 
The first thing he said was, 

" How dare you make such 
Grave charges against me ? " 

And this with a smile 
Arch and humorous ; I, though, could not for awhile 
Understand his allusion, and so I told him. 
And he only repeated the same thing ; but in 
A moment or two it had flashed on my mind 
To what he referred — what I wrote the last time — 
That " I should not tempt him, etc.," and so 
I answered, 

" I recollect now, but you know 
I dare to do anything, but to meet you 1 " 
He laughed then a little, replied, 

" So you do 
Think, then, it would not be ihejirst time, do you ? " 

He hardly looks like the same man in the choir 
That he does out of it ; not but what I admire 
Him as much, or but what he looks quite as well, too, 
Near by as he does farther off. To the view 
6 



122 STOLEI^ WATERS. 

Distance lends not enchantment, at least, in this case ; 

He is very fine-looking, in form and in face. 

I do not see how I could ever have thought 

That Colonel AUair is more handsome ! He's Twt^ 

By any means ; though he in fact is somewhat 

Of a different style, from " my own Antony ; " 

Is darker complexioned, I think ; at least, he 

Is less fair in face, and his beard darker, ^loo ; 

Is taller, not quite so broad shouldered. I do 

Not think that he either possesses such grace 

Or polish of manner, allowing his face 

To be nearly as handsome. 

Remarking to him 
That he did not look like the same person when in 
The choir that he did out of it, he replied, 
Laughingly, that perhaps he was not ; how did I 
Know, indeed, but he was some one else ? 

He to-day 
To call on a lady a few blocks away 
"Was going — her name Mrs. Douglass, I think, 
And a stranger to him — to engage her to sing 
Next Sabbath at church. I inquired whose place she 
Was to take, the soprano's, or alto's. And he 
First replied laughingly, " Oh, the tenor's," and then. 
Said that she was to sing in the place of Miss M., 
The present soprano. 

Referred, by the by, 
To the poem he sent me, " You I^issed il/e/" and I 
Asked if he knew the author. He said he did not. 
It purported to come from a lady, but thought 
A woman naught half so exquisite could write, 
And added that in the piece there was some quite 



STOLEN WATERS. 123 

Strong language emploj^'ed ; and then quoted, in his 

Tones so matchless, the few lines commencing with this, 

" And were 1 this instant an angel, possessed 

Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, 

I would throw my white robes unrepiningly down. 

And tear from my forehead its glittering crown, 

To nestle once more in that haven of rest " — 

At the next line he paused, and with archness expressed 

In his face, and I fancied some bashfulness, said, 

With a little short laugh, tossing backward his head, 

" I've forgotten the rest ! " 

He informed me that he 
And my Sabbath-school teacher schoolmates used to be. 
I exclaimed in surprise, " Why he's older than you ? " 
He smiled, said, " I guess not, think he's fifty- two. 
And I fifty-seven ! " 

*' You are not so old ! " 
I replied, and I knew by his face he'd not told 
Me the truth when he answered me — " Why ! that is not 
Very old, is it ? " 

" Oh, not so very, I thought, 
Though that you was much younger ! " replied I, and he 
Said, " No ! I am just seventeen ! " 

Teasing me, 
I of course knew he then was, or trying to do ; 
So I said " No ! but tell me, just how old are you ! " 
" Thirty-seven," he then said he was, and I knew 
That this time, at least, he was telling me true. 
Just to think of it ! He was last year twice as old 
As I ! And how long he'd been married, he told 
Me, as well. Fifteen years, I believe, and so I 
Was scarcely four years old. He would, by the by, 



124 STOLEN WATERS. 

Have had a long time to have waited for me. 
He has two little boys, and the oldest thirteen, 
The other one seven. I never have seen 
The youngest. 

I spoke of a cousin of mine 
Seeing him at a ball, one eve, some little time 
Ago ; but he said he'd not been to but one 
This season ; and that was masonic. He'd on 
A masonic ring, also. I asked him if he 
Was a mason, and coiild he not give unto me 
The "grip," and he answered, " Oh, yes! " as he took 
My hand in his own, but of course merely shook 
It, and naturally, I suppose, held it fast, 
And pressing my fingers, retained in his clasp 
The hand he had taken, although from his grasp 
To release it I did once or twice vainly try. 
But he then took the other, instead, by the by, 
Both holding with firmness, yet gently, and I 
Did not care very much. 

I expected he would 
Have made such advances. I think that I should 
Be afibcted and foolish if 1 should pretend 
That I did not ; or either that he did offend 
By making such overtures. I of course knew 
When I sent my first letter, and also all through, 
More especially, though, since becoming aware 
That I knew he was married, and-so-forth, that there 
Could not be much doubt but that he'd misjudge me 
And not only weak, but unprincipled, he 
Might possibly think me. 'Twould certainly be 
Very natural, too ; and I could not blame him 
If he did, yet I can but acknowledge he's been 



STOLEN WATERS. 125 

Exceedingly generous, and, I have had 

Occasion but once any fault to find — that 

Was his sending the poem, to which some way back 

I think I referred. Therefore, I was, in fact, 

Prepared for injustice, yet still hoped he might 

In the end change his mind, and I think that, to-night, 

Of me his opinion is different quite 

From what 'twas this morn. I repelled all I could, 

Without being rude, the caresses he would 

Have lavished on me ; and I've no fault to find, 

And he, I am certain, went home with his mind 

In regard to my frailty quite disabused. And, 

While making him fully, I thii^, understand 

I was not what he thought me, I did not repel 

What I knew was quite harmless, and also was — well. 

There has been in my heart for so long an intense, 

Half-unconscious desire for my friend's dear presence — 

A longing just once to be clasped in his arms. 

That now that my wishes could be without harm 

Gratified, why should I, what he gave on his part 

With so much of pleasure, refuse, while my heart 

A rapid response beat to each fond caress 

That he ofi'ered. And so I did not, I confess, 

Hepulse him, when he his head laid on my breast. 

But suffered it there a few moments to rest. 

While I to his forehead my cheek softly pressed, 

As happy as he. Nor again, when he drew 

Me within his embrace for a moment or two, 

Just before he was leaving, and pressed on my lips 

His first kiss, while to my very finger-tips 

I felt the blood rush from my heart. 



126 STOLEN WATERS. 

He, at last, 
Having glanced at his watch, found that two hours had 

passed, 
And 'twas then four o'clock ; therefore, was about time 
For Gertrude to come home from school ; and to find 
Him with me she must not; so I told him that he 
Must go, which he already knew. So of me 
Taking leave, very sweetly and kindly, he went, 
And I was alone. 

One more hour was far spent 
Before Gertie came home, so he need not have gone 
So soon, had I known it would been quite so long 
Ere she would have come. ]\[other did not get home 
Until about nine, and so we were alone — 
I and Gertie — as father went down town this eve, 
To hear — Wendell Phillips' address, I believe. 
Gertrude soon went to sleep on the sofa, and I 
Before the fire sat, in a rocker, with my 
Elbows resting on each of the arms of my chair, 
(feoth hands clasped o'er my eyes, and my thoughts — oh, 
well, where 
Should they be but with him ? And I wonder, too, whether 
*' He thought of to-day, of when we were together. 
How ? Where ? Oh, what matter ! Somewhere in a dream, 
Drifting, slowly drifting down a wizard stream — 
Where ? Together I Then what matters it whither ? " 

But midnight is rapidly hastening thither. 
And I'll say good-by to to-day which has been 
One of unalloyed pleasure ; enshrining within 
My heart's " white-washed chamber," its deepest recess, 
The memory dear of to-day, and confess 
** Stolen waters are sweet/ " 



STOLEN WATERS. 127 

And I also must blend 
With adieus to the day a good-night to vay friend^ 
To the future give hopes, to the past give a tear 
Of regret, and farewells to the speeding " Old Year." 



tTanuary 8th, 1864. 

FRIDAY. 

^'The great laws of life readjust their infraction, 
And to every emotion appoint a reaction." 
That sentiment I indorse with all my heart, 
And have realized fully, I think, for my part, 
The truth of the sentence. That pleasure must be 
By misery followed inevitably. 
No letter last Saturday did I receive. 
As I hoped that I might; and the Sabbath, indeed, 
Was a miserable day all around. In the morn 
I of course went to service. My brother was down 
And went to church with us. My cousin came, too. 
From Brooklyn, and as to myself, I was blue, 
I thought, as I could be, before I went out ; 
But my spirits, when I had returned, were about 
Ten deccrees lower still. 

Well ! my friend was there too, 
And he much as usual appeared, it is true ; 
Yet I own I was rather dissatisfied, felt 
Cross at him just a little, and more at mysel£ 
I also was vexed that I had not received 
Any letter from him Saturday, and believed 



128 STOLEN WATERS. 

That he might to me written, if he had cared to, 

As he promised, if I'm not mistaken, to do, 

And was more disappointed than caring to own. 

Then my brother and wife, after we returned home, 

Had some words, which were called out by something 1 

said, 
Though quite innocently ; and then, too, my head 
Ached almost as much as my heart, and I thought, 
On the whole, 'twas a day as thoroughly fraught 
With annoyances, trifling, perhaps, but yet none 
The less irritating and vexing, as one 
Very frequently passes. 

There was, by the by, 
In the chapel a prayer-meeting merely, that night, 
And no service in church, and so I was quite 
Content to stay home. 

Well, I heard the bell ring 
To-day, but supposed it was not anything 
For me ; consequently, was much pleased to find 
I'd not only a letter from Antony mine. 
But one also from Colonel Allair. And I then 
Felt better ; for both were quite pleasing, and when 
I had opened the Colonel's I found there enclosed 
A photograph of him — a fine one ! 

Suppose 
My Antony wished to make up for delay 
In writing to me, for his letter to-day 
Was much longer than usual, nor can I but say. 
Was equally kindly and warmly expressed. 
Commenced " My own Bitter-Sweet," and, for the rent, 
I would much like to copy it here if I could, 
But have neither the time nor the space. 



STOLEN WATERS. 129 

Thought lie should 
In the choir his position resign soon, although 
He did " rather like the old * corner,' " and so 
Guess he'll not. And his letter I answered to-night. 
And mailed it. I went past his house. A bright light 
Was in parlor and hall ; but the shades were drawn down. 
I saw naught of him — presume he was down town. 
Sister Fannie to Boston returned yesterday, 
I'm so tired, and think I have no more to say; 



tTanuary 10th, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Do not feel much like writing, have not much to write ! 
It's become second nature to write Sabbath night. 
So, as is my wont, I have taken my pen. 
And opened my book for that purpose. But then, 
As before I have said, I have not much to say. 
The fact of the matter is, I am to-day 
In much too low spirits for anything. Too, 
There's nothing of import occurred, since with you 
I chatted, my Journal, a few nights ago. 
Lorette was here yesterday afternoon, so 
We went with some friends to the theatre. Then 
I'd an invitation to B. this p.m. 
To dine, but 'twas so " bitter cold " did not go. 
Went to church morn and evening as usual, and so 
Of course saw my Antony. T did not, though, 
Pay but little attention to him, nor did he 
To me either this morning ; he seemed, though, to be 
6* 



130 STOLEN WATERS. 

Very pleasant and smiling this evening, but I 
Looked coldly away, and would not meet Ms eye. 
I suppose that he thinks I am ugly — I, too, 
Think he is a little, my Journal ; don't you ? 



tTanuary l^th, 1864. 

THURSDAY. 

One more pleasant day in my changeable life ! 
Again I can write of some hours that were rife 
With pleasure, instead of with pain. A short note 
I sent to my Antony Tuesday last. Wrote 
That mother was going to Brooklyn to-day, 
And if he could come out this p.m., and stay 
An hour or two with me, that I should be glad 
To see him, of course. I had hoped to have had 
A letter in answer this morning, to know 
Was he coming or not. None arrived, though, and so 
I hardly knew whether to expect him or not. 
About noon, though, the bell loudly rang, and I thought 
It sounded indeed like the carrier's ring ; 
But it was so late, thought it could not be him. 
However, it was, and he brought me the note 
I had been expecting ; and yet, though he wrote 
A long letter, for him, not a word did he say 
As to whether he should, or not, come out to-day. 
He asked near the end how I liked Sunday morn 
The sermon ; and said he dared hardly look down, 
As it seemed just as though some one's eyes were on him 
All the time. 



STOLEN WATEBS. 131 

Well, of course I was dressed and within 
Tlie parlor before two o'clock ; but I had 
Nearly given him* up ere he came ; but was glad, 
Ve7'i/ glad, to see his well-known form, pass at length, 
The window ; and so to the hall-door I went, 
And admitted ray friend. 

Mrs. A., who has been 
Staying here for some time, had gone out this p.m., 
Saying that she expected a call from a friend. 
And asked me if I would not see him, and tell 
Him why she was absent, and send him there. "Well ! 
I promised to do so, and thought it was him. 
When soon after my friend came I heard the bell ring. 
So I went to the door ; but a lady was there 
Whom I did not know ; proved to be a Miss Ware, 
A teacher of music, and came here to see 
If mother would not allow Gertrude to be 
A pupil of hers. So I told her that I 
Would speak to mamma about it, and would try 
And at once let her know the result. She had then 
Full particulars given to me; therefore, when 
She asked me if she might come in, I was so 
Much surprised that just what to reply did not know. 
Nor did I think ahead far enough then to say 
That I was engaged, and if some other day 
She'd call, she would doubtless mamma find at home. 
Hesitating one instant, the next I had shown 
Her in the front-parlor. My Antony then 
Had my albums, and sat calmly looking at them ; 
He was in the back room ; both the doors, though, between 
Were wide open, and so she of course must have seen 



132 STOLEN WATERS. 

Him sitting there ; but I did not at the time 

Think anything of it, except, Journal mine. 

That I wished she would go. And she did not say one 

Single thing except what she had previously done. 

Remained a few moments, and then went away. 

She gave me her card, and I found, by the way. 

That she on the same street resided that he 

Does. He looked at her card, and he said she must be 

But a few doors from him, and he guessed he would go 

And take lessons in singing ; but he did not know 

Her at all, in reply to my question, said. 

WeU! 
We were having a cosey chat all to ourselves. 
When some little time after the bell rang again. 
You must know that I did not go this time, but when 
In a moment Ann opened the door, I heard them 
Enquire for my mother, and heard her reply 
That she was away ; she believed, though, that I 
Was at home. So at once turned to show them into 
The parlor, but — most fortunately, 'tis true — 
The key I had turned when they rang, and she found 
The door fastened. And so after upstairs and down 
She had looked for me vainly, informed them that I 
Must also have gone out. And when, by the by, 
Their names they had given, I found them to be 
Two of our own church ladies most prominent. He 
Wished to know who they were, and I told him. How 

shocked 
They'd have been, if the door had not chanced to be locked, 
And they had been shown in the parlors, to find 
Him and me there alone. 'T would created a fine 
Piece of scandal, no doubt. But I wonder, in time, 



STOLEN WATERS. 133 

That I thought to do so ; but 'twas well that I did, 
Thus escaping unpleasant exposure. 

Amid 
So much interruption, the afternoon passed 
Away but too swiftly. Hours too bright to last 
Glided rapidly onward. Why cannot we stay 
The swift flight of Time ? Sometimes bid a to-day 
So happy and joyous to tarry alway ? 
"We did have a nice, pleasant time this p.m. 
It seems as if I had for years known my friend. 
Was just as affectionate, gentle, and kind, 
And charming, to-day, as he was the last time 
He was here. And I do like him much, and I guess 
That he does me a little. And yet, I confess 
That my feelings have been vastly different this eve 
Than they were the last time ; and think I may believe 
I have conquered that fancy. 

The reason he wrote 
Not a word about coming, within his last note, 
Was that it was written on Tuesday ; the boy 
Let the mail all lie over, and which did annoy 
Him much ; but supposed that I'd receive mine 
Yesterday afternoon. I coaxed him for some time 
To give back my letters ; but he would not say 
That he would or would not, only that he some day 
Desired " reading them backwards." That's all the reply 
I could get to my teasing. It seems he is quite 
Immovable when he once makes up his mind, 
And he's not to be coaxed, neither driven, I find, 
Into what he decides not to do. But I thought 
Him more pleasing in his conversation, and not 



134 STOLEN WATEB8. 

The less fascinating in manner, to-day, 

Than when he was with me before. Can but say 

That in every respect he's a gentleman, too, 

And I like him extremely ! My Journal, don't you ? 

I went out the evening to pass with some friends, 
Which I'm sure I could not done the last time ; but then, 
As I've previously said, I am now feeling quite 
Indiff'rent to him when compared to that night. 
His presence to-day gave me much pleasure, though, 
And the evening has been very happy also. 
Filled with thoughts of his tenderness, manliness, grace, 
His good sense, his kind words, and his loving embrace 
As he kissed me at parting. May he have to-night 
Happy thoughts 'till he sleeps, and then dreams of delight ! 



JTanuary 24:thy 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

One more dreary week has vanished and passed, 
But I've naught to record, since when here I wrote last. 
Except disappointment and pain, discontent, 
Wounded pride, and displeasure. 

Last Sabbath, I went 
To church morn and eve. Our new singer was there, 
And he sat back with her in the morn. Did I care ? 
Not so much as I should have a few weeks ago. 
Eemained in the " corner " that evening, although. 
And sent to me glances both smiling and sweet, 
Whenever my eyes I allowed his to meet, 



STOLEN WATERS. 133 

Wliich was not very often. I'm sure he could read 
Naught but coldness, indifference in mine, and, indeed, 
J. felt coldly to him. When they sang the last hymn 
I. saw the new singer and him whispering ; 
They pretended that it was the music about — 

Perhaps that it was ! Mrs. , his wife — was out. 

I wish she would stay home. 

Monday, went o'er to B. 
It rained, I got wet, the result was to me 
A cold most severe ; and the next day I could 
Hardly hold up my head. 

Mother thought that she should 
Go up to my brother's on Thursday ; at length 
Decided she would not; so I did not send, 
Of course, for my friend, until Frank that a.m. 
Came up here and said that the baby was sick. 
And wished her to go ; so she dressed just as quick 
As she could, and went off; and then, writing to him, 
I sent it down town by a friend who was in — 
Making him understand 'twas an order for books. 
I told him I knew he could come, and I looked 
For him, too ; but be did not. I felt just as Vexed 
As I could do, of course ; and I thought I would next 
A letter send him he would quite understand ; 
Make a change for the better, or else be a grand 
Winding-up of the whole. 

And I wrote, I could see, 
I thought, how it was ; he was getting to be 
Tired of our correspondence — disliked to say so ; 
But he said voluntarily, some time ago, 
That when weaiy of it he'd at once let me know. 



136 STOLEN WATERS. 

So I meant that he should ; and I said 'twas to me 
Most certainly pleasant — but only while he 
Wrote promptly ; but since then had been much more pain 
Than pleasure, indeed. Then I wrote, 

" It is plain 
You care not for me, and I never once thought 
That you did ; and I also can say I do not 
Care much for you, either. The crisis has passed ! 
Your recent neglect has been withering fast 
All affection's sweet roses, too fragile to last, 
Which had bloomed in my bosom for you, until naught 
Remains but a few faded leaves which I caught 
As they dropped from the stem ; and these, too, I shall now 
Gather up, with your letters and words, and allow 
The ' dead past to bury its dead.' I shall see 
You frequently, but you have lost over me 
All your power. I shall not forget you, indeed, 
And neither shall you forget * your Bitter Sweet ' (?) 
While you sing in that choir ;^ and I sit in the seat 
I now do in church. I am weary of wooing ; 
New business it is to me, I've been pursuing ; 
And I do not think I have had much success, 
And shall not attemj)t it again, I confess ; 
I will not coax any man, not even you, 
And if there is any more wooing to do, 
'Twill not be on my side." 

And then, at the close, 
I wrote that I left it with him to dispose, 
According to his inclination. That is 
To say, at once candidly, if 'twas his wish. 
To our correspondence close now ; and if so, 
Or if not, I requested that he'd let me know 



1 



STOLEN WATERS. 137 

By a note Sunday eve without fail. And I trust 
It may bring a change, and indeed think it must. 

Before I had sent this, the following day, 
I an answer received to my other, to say, 
He had just returned home from the country, and found 
My note, but could not possibly get up town 
That P.M., as he'd business he could not defer ; 
So we'd have to postpone it. Wrote but a few words, 
Scarce a page, but most kindly. So then what to do, 
About sending my letter, indeed hardly knew. 
But at length thought I would, the result of it be 
What it might. 

Lorette came up to-day, and with me 
Went to church. He sat back with the singers again. 
She asked if I saw how he looked at me when 
They were singing. I did see, or rather I knew 
His eyes were on me, though I would not, 'tis true, 
Look fully at him. After service, Lorette 
And I went down town a short distance. We met 
My friend and his wife at the corner, and each 
Walked down the same street 'till their door they had 

reached — 
But we on the opposite side- — and as he 
Turned in closing the door he sent over to me 
Smile and bow, too, of greeting most kind. We came back 
The same way, some time later. Lorette said he sat 
At i;he window ; so doubtless he saw us, but I 
Did not glance toward there while the house passing by. 
This evening he sat in the "corner." I thought 
He was writing, but now I suppose he was not, 



138 STOLEN WATERS. 

As lie gave me no letter — most provoking man ! — 
Notwithstanding my urgent request. And how can 
I avoid feeling coolly and cross to him, too, 
If he does look so kindly at me ? And J. do I 



tTanuary 31 5^, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

The letter I so much desired last Sunday 
Was on Wednesday received. Not a word did he say 
About our correspondence now closing ; but said 
That he was last Sabbath so situated 
'Twas impossible quite he should give me a note. 
His letter was pleasant and kind, and he wrote 
At some length beside, and he hoped that to me 
It might be acceptable. Thought there would be 
A chanoje in the choir before lonsr. There had been 
The previous day a committee to him, 
From some other church, and he could not tell what 
Might be the result. But I hope he will not 
Leave the choir. I am sure if I really thought 
He would, I should be more unhappy than now. 
Though 'twould hardly be possible, I will allow. 
Said he saw me go up street on Sunday noon last. 

And as to to-day, it, as usual, has passed 
Quite fleetly, if not very pleasantly. He 
Sat back in the choir morn and eve ; but on me 
He kept his eyes fixed during singing, and the 
Benediction as well, leaning over to see 



STOLEN WATERS. 139 

Me as I passed out, though I would not give him 
One full glance in return. After all, though, I've been 
And \i2iye felt toward him much less coolly to-day 
Than I have for some time. If he'd but keep away 
From our new soprano, I think I'd not be 
Quite so cross with him. So, I am jealous, you see, 
My Journal ! The fact is, I have not one bit 
Of confidence in him ; for if he sees fit 
To flirt so with me, he with others will, too, 
/And I cannot respect a man who is untrue 
\^In what should be the dearest relations of life. 
Let me once get my letters from him, and then I've 
Done with him. 

" She " was there, too, this evening — his wife ;— • 
She watches me closely, as if she might be 
Just the least trifle jealous. She need not — of me. 
And I was of her once, but think I'm not now, 
For she's much more cause than I have, I'll allow. 



February \st, 1864. 

MONDAY. 

I imagine the end can be not distant far ! 
That the time swift approaches when he and I are 
To become merely strangers again. And to-day 
Has been an eventful one, I can but say ! 
In the first place, this morn I a letter received 
From him, which was written on Saturday eve : 
Was just going up to rehearsal, he wrote. 



140 STOLEN WATERS. 

" 'Twas a bore, sliould be glad wlien relieved ! " But I 

hope 
That time will not come very soon. 

" I suppose 
I shall see you to-morrow," he writes, near the close — 
" But know not as then I shall hardly dare meet 
Your eyes, lest I see that you look, Bitter Sweet, 
So frowningly at me because I have not 
Replied to your letter before, as I thought 
To be able to do. This is, though, the first chance 
I have had." 

But there was not much fear in his glance 
Last Sabbath, nor did I frown much, I believe. 
But he wrote before this — 

"la letter received 
Anonymously but a few days ago. 
In regard to my visiting up town ; and so 
It seems some one saw me, has taken the pains 
To warn me of it, and attributes the same 
To bad motives. Perhaps 'tis as well, for although 
My mind's free from wrong, others may not think so. 
And a mere friendly visit construe thus into 
Something worse. Well !(^we all are quite likely, 'tis true, 
To judge from appeai-ance ! j Unjustly, sometimes, 
As in this case. And we should perhaps bear in mind 
The old proverb, ' Avoid all appearance of wrong.' " 

I knew in a moment just where it came from — 
The caller I had the last time he was here ; 
From no one else could it have come. It is clear 
She saw him come in, and, they living so near 



STOLEN WATERS. 141 

To each other, she certainly must have known him ; 

So suppose that she made up her mind to come in 

And ascertain why he was there. I thought, then, 

Rather strange she should ask if she might, and, too, when 

She'd already said all necessary to say. 

She's contemptible ! Bad as I am, or she may 

Think I am — for I fancy I'm not, by the way, 

Any worse than she is — I would ne'er condescend 

To do aught so mean. Force herself in, and then 

Take advantage of what she discovered, to send 

An anonymous letter to him. She is not, 

Neither is her opinion, deserving a thought ! 

But it is rather galling to be so misjudged. 

To a proud girl like me, it is true ! But then, fudge ! 

It is not worth minding, to come from that source, 

Though for his sake, it could but annoy me, of course. 

But if it don't get to his wife I don't care ! 

Finished reading my letter, I went right downstairs, 
And nearly the first thing, mamma asked me where 
My letter was from. An evasive reply 
Was I forced to make. This concealment, though, I 
Can hardly endure. 'Tis quite foreign to my 
Nature, habit, and wish. But it shall not be so ! 
I will sever all ties that now bind us, although 
My heart it should break. Though there is not much fear 
Of that, I imagine ! Instead, it is clear 
'Twill be more a relief than aught else to me. Yet, 
Can I give him up ? It will be hard, I expect. 
Although it must be. 

Mother said that a week 
Ago yesterday, she had gone for a sheet 



142 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of note-paper to my portfolio, and saw 

It was locked. But she thought that perhaps she might 

draw- 
Some forth from the leaves in between. So she tried, 
And she did ; but she drew something else, too, beside. 
One sheet of the letter — or copy — I sent 
Him the previous week ; and which also I meant 
Upstairs to have taken, and placed in my desk, 
And did the next day. An envelope addressed 
To him I have been very careful, all through, 
Not to keep, lest some person should see it ; and, too, 
Whene'er there has been anything of the kind 
Within my portfolio before, any time. 
In the pockets I always have placed it, and not 
The leaves in between ; but this time my forethought 
Seems quite to have left me. She read it all through, 
Told how it commenced, and some things I wrote, too. 
And quoted verbatim — " I shan't forget you. 
You shall not forget me, long as you continue 
To sing in that choir, and I sit in the pew 
That I now do in church." So I saw that she knew 
The whole story, and farther dissembling would be 
Both useless, and also impossible. She 
Said she " lioped that it might be the bass-singer, and 
Could not think I'd been writing to a married man." 
And why did I do it ? Foolish girl that I am ! 
I told her I thought no more of him than she. 
And, as soon as my letters I could obtain, we 
Would be done with each other. 

So I must tell him 
When I have a good chance. I don't like to go in 



ISTOLEN WATERS. 143 

To the store, so must wait until he comes out here. 

And no knowing when that time will come, but I fear 

'Twill be not very soon. And I do wonder what 

Will come next ? "It ne'er rains, but it pours I " and I 

thought 
There was truth in the proverb to-day. 

This p.m: 
I wrote him a note ; have not sent it. 

Well, when 
We part, we'll part friends. One more meeting, and then — 



February 1th, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Nothing very important since here I last wrote. 
Last Wednesday a.m., there arrived a brief note 
From my friend ; and he spoke of the one he received, 
And he writes — 

"Who it came from I cannot conceive, 
Can you ? You must see that will render it, though, 
Impossible for me at present to go 
Out to see you." 

I do wish that some people would 
Their own affairs mind ! It would do them more good, 
And cause much less trouble. I had not sent mine 
That I wrote him on Monday, so added a line. 
And sent it that day. And I wrote him I thought. 
After reading the rest of my letter, he'd not 



144 STOLEN WATERS. 

Have much doubt where his came from, and asked him 

to send 
It to me for perusal. I told him I then 
Expected that something would come of her call, 
But thought not of that ; neither cared I at all, 
If it did not through her reach his wife. And I hope 
It will not, for her own sake and his too. I wrote, 
" I am sure 'twas from her, so you see that there would 
Be no danger in your coming up, if I could 
Opportunity give to you ; but I cannot 
Just at present. But you seem to have not a thought 
That Vve aught at stake." 

I wrote nothing about 
My mother's discovery ; 'till he comes out, 
I thought I would wait ere I told him. Have had 
Not as yet any answer to that, though I half 
Expected one yesterday morn. 

This A.M., 
I of course went to church. He was there, and again 
Sat back with the rest of the singers, and I 
Felt jealous as usual. I do not see why 
He does so, I'm sure ! for he never used to 
Until the new singer came ; now, it is true, 
He does nearly always. 

Was given to-night 
In the chapel a Sabbath-school concert. 'Twas quite 
A good one. He was not of course there, but " she''' — 
His wife — was, and sat, too, one seat back of me. 
After concert, her little boy came to her seat ; 
So I've seen him at last! He's the image complete 
Of his father. He has the same eye, dark and deep, 
The small mouth, pouting lips, and the same rounded cheek, 



~ STOLEN WATERS. 145 

And, more like him than all, same expression of mild, 
Sweet good-humor. And he is a beautiful child ! 
And I fancy that she thinks so, too, by the tone 
Of fondness with which she addressed him. I own 
That she well may be proud of her fine, lovely boy. 
I wonder where he was to-night, how employed ! 

The Sabbath-school had a rehearsal last night. 
I went. The choir, too, were rehearsing. I'd liked 
To have looked in a moment on them, I confess ; 
But of course I could not, and was forced to repress 
All longings to see my (iedir friend, 'till to-day. 
And then was not quite satisfied, I must say. 



February 12th, 1864. 

FEIDAY. 

Friday Eve ! and once more all alone in my room, 
With my journal before me, my pen I resume, 
To inscribe on its pages the passing events 
Of the week nearly gone, of a day of content, 
Which also hastes fast to its close. And I, too. 
Must with brevity say all I'm wishing to do. 
And seek my repose. 

Tuesday last, I believe, 
From Colonel AUair I a letter received. 
And one from my ^'friend " on the following day. 
He writes — 

" I have felt much annoyed, I must say, 
Since receiving the note which I spoke of to you, 
In my last ; and I cannot imagine yet, who 
7 



146 STOLEN WATERS. 

Its author could be. I can scarcely think, though, 

It came from the party that called, as I know 

I never saw her before ; but it might be 

Possible, I suppose, that she may have known me. 

So vexed did I feel, then, that I destroyed it 

At once ! but have many times wished, I admit, 

That I had not, as I would have liked you to see 

The note, though 'twas not very likely to be — 

The handwriting — familiar to you. I can't free 

My mind from the thought that they're yet waiting for 

The next visit." 

But I don't at all think so ! nor 
Have I any doubt where it came from, as I 
Said before, three or four days ago ; or that my 
Yisitor and his new correspondent are one. 

My sister has been v/ishing mother to come 
And see her, for some time, and when she went home 
Mamma promised to do so. She Wednesday received 
A summons to come on immediately. 
As my sister was ill. So she left us this morn, 
And three or four weeks, I suppose, will be gone. 
I sent him an answer to his yesterday. 
And wrote him that mother was going away, 
And asked him if he would come out this p.m. 
I looked for his coming 'till half-past two, when 
I quite gave hira up, and had taken a book 
And been reading some moments, when chancing to look 
Out the window, I saw he was just passing by. 
My book was thrown down in an instant, and I 
At the door to admit him. 

He said what I wrote 
About coming up to-day, he did not note, 



8T0LEN WATERS. 147 

Until two o'clock. That my letter he then 

Had just taken out to look over again, 

And as soon as he saw that he came right away. 

I wrote him in pencil, and that was in a 

" P. S.," I believe, why he did not see it. 

I told him about mamma, and I admit 
He took it quite coolly, seemed vexed not one bit, 
But laughingly asked why I did not permit 
Her still to think it was the bass-singer ! 

I 
Enquired the first time he was here, by the by, 
Where my letters he kept, and he told me within 
A drawer in his desk ; and to-day I asked him 
If its contents he bro\ight, and he said, no ; that he 
Could not get to them, as he had broken the key. 
But so roguishly I could but know he was not 
The truth telling me, and that he could have got 
Them, had he desired to. I coaxed him to bring 
Them out the next time that he came, but a thing 
Satisfactory I could not get in reply. 
Or nothing, at least, on which I could rely. 
I told him I knew he would ne'er have the time 
For " reading them backwards ! " 

While teasing for mine, 
He said not one word of my giving back his. 
If he had, I should not. Had he told me, " That is 
The condition alone on which I'll return yours," 
I should said not another word of it, I'm sure. 
I canH give them up, come what may ! So I teased, 
And coaxed, and persuaded, and he at his 6ase, 
Leaning back in his chair, l^ghed in answer, or gave 
Sometimes a caress for reply, or else made 



148 STOLEN WATERS. 

Unto each argument some objection; at length, 
He said — and his tone changed to ice — he would send 
Them, certainly, if I insisted on it. 
But that he had not all of them, he'd admit ; 
When they were about bim sometimes, he had been 
Obliged to destroy them, lest they should be seen. 
He thought he would come out next Tuesday again. 
From school Gertie came ere he left me, but went 
Right downstairs ; then he bade me good-by. 

Well, we spent 
An afternoon pleasant indeed ; or at least 
To me. He is splendid, I think, and was pleased 
Much as ever, to-day, with him. 

But I must not 
Write more at this time. To my ^^ friend'''' many thoughts 
I am sending to-night, and with fond wishes fraught. 



Fehruary lith, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Quite a nice, pleasant day this has been, and I come, 
At its close, to write here of it ; and I have some 
News, my JovTrnal, to tell you. Last night we received 
A telegram, saying the previous eve 
Mamma safely at her destination arrived — 
Fannie's husband it came from — and that his dear wife 
Had a very fine boy born that morn. 

Gertie went 
To Tarrytown yesterday ; brother Frank sent 



STOLEN WATERS. 149 

For father and I to dine with him to-day. 

So we went after church. Passed his house on the way. 

When we first came in sight, he was standing between 

The windows, but then he — I think, having seen 

Us coming — sat down with a paper to read ! 

So I saw him distinctly. And he is, indeed, 

A darling, I think ; and was charming to-night ! 

But he sat with the singers. The " corner " is quite 

Deserted of late. Well ! there is, I suppose, 

More attraction elsewhere than that offers ; who knows ? 



^ a^r 



February 28th, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 



** I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life ! " 
Its pleasures, its follies, its turmoil, its strife ! 
I am weary of all that I've tasted below, 
I am weary of friend, and I'm weary of foe. 
And friends (?), what are they? When joy brightens our 

skies. 
They flutter around us like gay butterflies, 
Display their bright colors, their rainbow-hued wings. 
Ah ! they're happy, and joyous, and beautiful things ! 
But touch their bright spots and their beauty is gone. 
They spread their frail wings, and then soon flutter on. 
Yes ! when sorrow's dark clouds have our heavens o'ercast, 
We find, all too soon, their rich hues will not last. 
On a frail " broken reed " we've been placing our trust. 
Our friends are all false, and their vows n^iught but dust. 



150 STOLEN WATERS, 

** Prosperity wins them, adversity tries," 

They're ours while the sun shines, when shade comes they 

fly- 

" I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life ! " 

Its dearest enjoyment with poison is rife. 

Enjoyment ? what is it, and where to be found ? 

In fashion's gay haunts where mirth seems to abound ? 

Ah, no ! Is not there beneath all this glitter 

Some hearts that are aching — less sweet thoughts than 

bitter ? 
Some one has said that " Home, Mother, and Heaven 
Are xhQ three sweetest words to our hearts ever given." 
Home? Do we not find in each household band 
Some chord that will vibrate, if swept by rude hand ? 
A circle e'er find but one faithless one's there, 
Ever a fireside, but has one vacant chair ? 
Mother ? Though her love is as deep as 'tis pure, 
Seek we not farther ? though find none that's truer. 
Memory points us to counsels we've slighted. 
To eyes dimmed by tears that sweet smiles should have 

lighted. 
Heaven ? ** Patience is bitter if the fruit is sweet ! " 
The way's long and dreary, the thorns pierce our feet. 
Though tempting the goal, beyond price the reward, 
'Tis won but by toils, tiials, faith in the Lord. 
" I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life ! " 
Weary of love, friendship — yes ! weary of life. 
Love I oh, how fragile, how transient a flower! 
And yet are not all of us swayed by its power ? 
It brightens our pathway for one fleeting day, 
We fondly imagine 'twill ne'er fade away. 



STOLEN WATERS. 151 

'^ But too soon we awake from the sweet, blissful dream, 
To find hearts are faithless, love not what it seems. 
Friendship ? 'Tis an empty, a meaningless word ; 
*Tis fraught with heart- achings, with sighs breathed un- 
heard. 
True 'tis to you when there is aught to be gained ; 
When needed most, leaves your fond hearts to be pained 
By its fickleness, untruth, and heartless disdain ; 
To find your hopes blighted, your faith all in vain. 
Life ! what is that ? Ask the poet or painter, 
Ask him whose weak voice with age daily grows fainter. 
The poet in eloquent verse will portray 
Its joys and its sorrows, smooth paths and rough ways. 
The artist will paint you with light here, there shade, 
A cradle — an altar — a grave newly made. 
The old man will say 'tis a meteor bright. 
One moment 'tis noonday, the next it is night. 
*' I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life ! " 
There's nothing but bitterness, nothing but strife ! 
Bickerings without, and temptations within. 
Smiles battling with tears, and purity with sin. 
Hopes are crushed at one blow, and true hearts are be- 
trayed, 
Love's Eden is entered, home desolate made. 
Dishonor is stamped upon many a brow. 
Disgrace hangs o'er those that were happy but now ; 
The death angel dark hovers o'er our bright land, 
Touching here one, and there one, with his icy hand, 
Gathering around him his mantle of gloom, 
Only to drop it o'er some lonely tomb. 
War o'er our country spreads its desolation, 
Brother 'gainst brother, and nation 'gainst nation, 



152 STOLEN WATEIta. 

Pure streams dyed with hearts' blood, fields red and gory. 
Lives yielding all up to country and glory. 
Deep is the darkness, the night is dreary, 
I'm homesick, heartsick, of life I am weary. 

It has been a long time since I've written in here. 
Two weeks ! that in passing, have seemed long and drear. 
Two weeks, which have brought in their flitting to me, 
A few gleams of joy, but much more misery. . 

For writing no heart I have had, or for aught 
Else beside where was requisite much composed thought ; 
And to-day I so restless have been all the time, 
I thought that it possibly might ease my mind, 
To talk for a short time, my Journal, with you, 
And something tell you of the past week or two ; 
The record's too humiliating, though, quite 
Too troubled and sad to be pleasant to write. 

The week following his latest visit to me, 
I received not a word from him, nor did I see 
Him as I expected. You know he said then 
He thought he would come the next Tuesday — but when 
Tuesday came a most terrible storm raged. The next 
Day was not much better, nor did I expect 
Him of course ! And the rest of the week was, although 
Fair and clear, cold intensely, and I did not know 
But possibly that might the reason be why 
He did not come up. I wrote him, by the by. 
Once or twice in the interim. Day after day 
I watched for his coming — ^^a letter — alway 
To be disappointed. And no one can know 
How restless, unhappy, I felt, and how slow 



STOLEN WATERS. 153 

Dragged each wearisome hour. In that way the week passed 

With no tidings whatever ; and Sabbath at last 

Arrived, and I went out to church. He was there, 

As usual ; but I, feeling too vexed to care 

To see him, my eyes kept averted, nor met 

His own scarcely once. For I could not forget 

How unkind he had been. There may have, I concede, 

Been something his coming to hinder, indeed; 

He mighty though, have written, and not have kent me 

In constant suspense the whole week. Or if he 

Did not wish to come up here why could not he say so ? 

I'd like it much better than that he should play so 

With my feelings and wishes. 

My father went out 
To my brother's to dine that day, but 'twas about 
All that /^ could do home to remain; and I knew 
I could not be sociable if I tried to; 
So I thought that the best place for me was at home, 
And I spent the whole day between service alone. 
Well ! the next day — on Monday — I sent him a note 
Which was one piece of sarcasm all through ; and wrote 
Him without fail to come up the next day and bring 
My letters, and I'd nevermore say a thing 
About his again coming up. Tuesday, I 
Was looking for him, and I saw passing by 
A boy, with a book in his hand, and addressed 
To some one : I saw one initial, the rest 
His hand hid. He went on to the end of the row, 
Made inquii'ies, came back, rang our bell, then, and so 
Of course I suspected that it was for me — 
The book in his hand — and it thus proved to be. 
7* 



154 STOLEN WATEB8. 

No message he gave me, but when I removed 
The wrapper, I found a sealed note, and which proved 
To be written by him. There were also with this 
A dozen or so of my letters. Well, his 
I opened at once. Commenced 
" My Bitter-Sweet : " 

" I was gone out of town nearly all of last week, 
But your letters have all been received. All I find 
Is * those letters I want ! ' I told you, the last time 
That I saw you, I had not them all ; and you say 
Not one word of returning me mine, by the way. 
And now as the letters the uppermost thing 
In your mind seems to be, I return half — will bring 
Or send you the rest when.a?^ mine I receive. 
This is no more than fair. And you said, I believe, 
That you still had them all ; and if you return them 
You shall have all of yours, not destroyed, and you then 
No more trouble about them will have on youi' mind. 
So busy am I that I cannot find time 
To go up town to-day, even if I dared to. 

" Yours in haste. 

" Antony." 

When I this had read through, 
The first thing I did was to sit down and write 
An answer to his, which I mailed the same night. 
By the way, too, not one of the letters returned 
Were of any account. Notes, just fit to be burned. 
I wi-ote him that I could not send him back his. 
If I never have mine. Suppose, therefore, that is 
The end of the matter — as he said, in fact. 
In his answer which I received Thursday. And that 



STOLEN WATERS. 155 

It was his intention to say many things, 

But was feeling, that day, so unwell, could not bring 

His mind to the subject ; that also must be 

The excuse for his brevity. 

I cannot see 
What ails him, I'm sure ! There is something, but what, 
I cannot conceive. I am certain 'tis not 
Anything J" have done. He is fretting about 
The anonymous letter — mamma's finding out 
About our correspondence — I think there's no doubt 
It is one or the other, or something that I 
Yet know nothing about. In his answer to my 
Beply to this letter, he writes — 

*^ I received 
Yours this morning, and I can but say, I believe, 
That nothing at all yon have said angered me. 
Though I did hardly fair, indeed, think it, to be 
Compromised by your making acknowledgments that 
I was your corresj)ondent ; as I could, in fact, 
Not see the necessity." 

I, in reply, 
Wrote, I thought that if one certain lady, whom I 
Could mention, a similar question of him 
Had asked, that mamma did of me, he would, in 
His looks, if he did not in words, the whole thing 
Have acknowledged as well. 

In the same he again 
Writes — 

" I cannot your wish understand, that as friends 
We should part. Surely ! -Tat least trust there'll be naught 
But the most kindly feelings between us, or thoughts ; 



156 STOLEN WATERS. 

As I've, I assure you, no others to you. 

His letter was most kind and pleasant all through, 

And at some length was written. He says near the end, 

" I cannot tell when I can come up, my friend, 

As * things is so mixed ;' some I cannot explain 

At present, and had, perhaps, better remain 

In ' statu quo.' " 

But as to what it can be, 
Of course, I have not the remotest idea. 
That was written on Friday, received yesterday. 
He sat with the singers, as usual, to-day. 
And looked very handsome. Well ! I believe that 
Is all, and I'm too tired to write more, in fact. 



March 9th, 1864. 

WEDNESDAY. 

The first part of the week which succeeded my last 
Record here, my dear Journal, was quietly passed. 
Father started for Boston on last Thursday eve 
To bring mamma home ; but when ready to leave, 
I could not go downstairs to bid him good-by. 
So completely prostrate with a headache was I. 
The night was a wretched one, and, the next day. 
Though better, was not very well, I must say. 
My brother's wife came about noon, and I went 
Home with her, after I had first written and sent 
A note to my friend as an answer to one 
I that morning received ; and I wrote he could come, 



STOLEN WATERS. 157 

Or not, as he pleased — he could write me again, 

If he liked, or he need not — that 'twas to me, then, 

A matter of perfect indifference ; that 

If he suited himself I was suited. In fact, 

My letter was not cross but weary, as I 

Was myself. I have often, of late, by the by, 

In my mind had a poem I sometime ago 

Was reading — the author of it I don't know — 

Which commenced, " We are so tired, my poor heart and 1 1 " 

On Sunday a.m. it was cloudy, and my 
Sister made every effort she could to induce 
Me not to go home ; but 'twas not any use ; 
Go I would, and I did, and was very glad, too. 
That I had, for he sat in the front nearly through 
The sermon, and then in the corner ; and I 
Could not fail to perceive the soft light in his eye 
Bent so constantly on me. And I could almost 
Have fancied the last weeks a dream, as a host 
Of sweet feelings then surged through my heart. I went homw* 
For my letters, and then back to T. ; and I own. 
Though it rained, I got wet — as I'd taken that mom 
The open carriage — I was glad I had gone, 
And am still. 

Brother Frank and his wife went last night 
In town to see Forrest ; and so I was quite 
Alone with the children and servants. I read 
Moore and Shakspeare 'till weary, and then decided 
To pencil a few farewell lines to my '•'' friendP 
But wrote rather briefly, it being late then. 
I came home to-day, and a letter received. 
Saying mother and father would be home this eve. 
They came about six. 



158 STOLEN WATERS. 

And so this is the end ! 
The flirtation is over, and we are again 
Merely strangers ! And yet, I can ne'er feel the same 
Toward him that I did before it we began. 
And I feel assured also, he, too, never can 
Forget it or me. Looking back now, it seems. 
The three months just passed, much more like a long dream 
Than it does reality. It was to me, 
Some parts of it, pleasant ; yet I can but be 
Most heartily glad it is over, and do 
Not doubt but it is a relief to him, too. 
The whole correspondence has been, in some things, 
The most mortifying, humiliating. 
Of any I ever have been engaged in. 
But I think that from it I a lesson have learned, 
And if a few leaves of the past could be turned, 
And I could begin it again, it would be 
On my part conducted quite differently. 
The truth to confess, I am of it ashamed ! 
And presume many times I have thought him to blame, 
When I have been mostly in fault. We have not 
Each other, somehow, understood. I have thought 
Him unkind, many times, very likely, when he 
Was not conscious of it, nor intended to be. 
But he's so Tnuch injiuence had over me, 
And I could not indeed wear my chains gracefully. 
But constantly struggling from bonds to be free, 
Have wounded myself many times, I can see. 
Of late, I have fancied, sometimes, that he meant 
To punish me for keeping him in suspense 
So long at the first. If that was his intent, 
TTe has had his revenge ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 159 

And so, tliis page ends 
My journal, or this volume of it, at least. 
For my book is quite filled, and this day must complete 
The record of so many unhappy hours. 
And a few most exquisitely happy ones ! " Flowers 
By the wayside ! " And though springing up among thornsj 
Blooming freshly and sweet, amid sunshine or storms. 
Some time a new journal I trust to begin ! 
May it be much more jDcaceful than this one has been. 
Farewell to this volume, to days bright and dreary ! 
" Kest is sweet after strife ; I would sleep ; I am weary ! " 




STOLEN WATERS. 



PART SECOND. 



*'He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet I " 

J. G. HOLLAin>. 



" What was love, then ? not calm, not secure, scarcely kind ; 
But in one, all intensest emotion combined : 
Life and death : pain and rapture : the infinite sense 
Of something immortal, unknown, and immense 1 " 

Owen Meredith, 




Stolen Waters. 



-•>ooc><*- 



larl ^ttonb". 



NEW YORK. 



April 2ith, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

To my new Journal, greeting ! Once more I resume 
Book and pen with my own wayward heart to commune. 
I seek, once again, a companionship I 
Have most sadly missed in the weeks now gone by, 
Since turning away from the record, which had 
Been both hitter and sweet, and both joyous and sad, 
Closed my book upon the irrevocable past, 
And bent heart and will to the yet fruitless task 
Of learning forgetfulness. Lessons, I find. 
Which no force of will, and no purpose of mind 
Can make me achieve. 

" The grief which doth not speak, 
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break ! " 



164 STOLEN WATERS. 

/No fountain, but must have some outlet ! No heart 
But must have some vent, or but longs to impart 
Its sorrows and joys unto some faithful friend. 
> So to you, my dear Journal, I turn once again ! 
None more faithful than you, none more trusty and true ; 
So I'll give my confidence where it is due, 
And gathering up all the now scattered threads 
Of my life and my heart, will bring each tiny shred 
To be again woven by your silent loom. 
Into fabrics and colors of brightness or gloom. 

The weeks which have vanished since bidding adieu 
To my Journal's last volume, have not, it is true, 
Been quite uneventful ! And neither have they 
Been tranquil or happy. Believing the way 
To learn to forget what was painful and sad. 
And once more to make my heart buoyant and glad. 
Was within it to give to remembrance no place. 
And cease in these pages its changes to trace, 
I've kept tightly closed its escape- valves, and sealed 
Every door to its innermost chambers — revealed 
To none the emotion which almost, at times. 
Seemed forcing an egress, all efibrts of mine 
To repress but indeed more rebellious made still. 
Till my heart at length in its struggles with will 
Has come off victorious, and given to grief 
A vent— an escape — and in writing, relief. 

Well ! to-xlay for the first time since here I "wrote last, 
I have looked on the face of " my friend " of the past. 
All these dreary weeks to a sick-room confined 
He has been, and I, too, in a tumult of mind 



STOLEN WATERS. 165 

Indescribable quite — first, of ignorance, doubt, 
Then knowledge, anxiety, have been about 
As restless, unhappy as I could well be. 
And in the meantime, has he given to me, 
I wonder, one thought ? Or already have I 
Dropped out of his life with completeness, no sigh 
Of regret for the past, for the future no hope ! 

The six weeks to me have passed by very slow. 
For nearly a month he had been ill, before 
I knew what detained him from service. Two more 
Sabbaths since then have gone. When last week I went oui 
" She " was there, and I fancied knew something about 
Our acquaintance, she then looked so queerly at me. 
I presume 'twas all fancy, though ! By the way, he 
This winter is wearing an overcoat light. 
And during the service it hangs just in sight 
In the " corner." The first thing I noticed to-day, 

When I went in, was Mrs. , his wife — and away 

From her face to the " corner " I glanced ; and saw there 
A light overcoat, yet even then did not dare 
Hardly think it was his, fearing still I should be 
Disappointed. But when they began to sing, he 
Stood before me as handsome as ever, although 
Looking so pale and thin ; and a glad light, I know, 
Filled my eyes, as I could not, indeed, fail to see 
That when he came out his first glance was for me. 
How happy it made me to see him again ! 
And so, my dear Journal, you see that his chain 
Is still round my neck, and the clasp he yet holds. 
But chains always chafe, although made of fine gold. 



166 STOLEIT WATERS, 

May 1st, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Again I'm in much tribulation ! This week 
Father changes his business to Brooklyn. He speaks 
As if we should stay where we are until fall, 
But expect when he gets there he'll soon want us all. 
And how can I think of it ? How can I go 
And leave him^ " my own? " I shall never, I know, 
Never see him at all ! 

I to church went to-day ; 
He was there, and I was very glad, I must say, 
To see he was looking much better — quite like 
His dear self. No service, but concert to-night. 



May 8thy 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Well ! this, I suppose, is my last Sunday here ! 
For the last time, my Journal, I come to this dear 
Little sanctum of mine for a Sabbath night's chat. 
Of which we so many before have had, that 
I scarcely can force myself now to believe 
That this is the last ! That this week I shall leave 
This house in which so many hours I have passed, 
So happy and joyous I knew they'd not last; 
Hours of sadness, as well, which could not fly too fast. 



STOLEN WATERS. 167 

That I must bid adieu to this dear little room, 

With associations of both sunshine and gloom. 

So brimful ; where so many castles I've built. 

Some have melted in air, some have been all fulfilled I 

My last Sabbath here has as usual been spent, 

And is now nearly ended. This morning I went 

To church, and the first thing I saw was a dark 

Overcoat, which was hung in the " corner." My heart 

Sank sev'ral degrees. Soon the bass-singer came 

To the front ^ith a gentleman ; both I saw plain. 

And thought, " Well ! it seems we are having this mom 

A new tenor, or organist ! " And, although down 

At my seat he kept constantly glancing, while he 

Stood talking, I never once thought it could be 

My Anfcony dearest ! and not until they 

Were commencing to sing did I know him. The way 

Of it was, since the last Sabbath he's taken off 

His beard, leaving only his mustache, so soft 

And drooping. It made in his looks such a change, 

So distinct and decided, 'twas not very strange 

That I did not know him, e'en though his dear face 

Is so sweetly familiar, and in it I've traced 

Each passing emotion so many a time. 

He looks younger and handsomer ; yet. Journal mine, 

I must own that I do scarcely like him so well ; 

It makes him seem almost a stranger ; the spell 

Of his presence has something of newness in it, 

And seemed desecrating the past, I admit I 

We intend to retain, for the present, our pew. 

When I write here again, I suppose in my new 

But less dearly loved home I shall be. So adieu 

To the memory of hopes, disappointed ones too, 



168 STOLEN WATERS. 

Whicli cluster within this dear room ; and a last 
And lingering farewell to its dreams of the past ! 



BKOOKLYK 



3Iay 22d, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Two weeks since my last writing ! In my new home, 
In my new " sanctum sanctorum," once more I come 
To trace one more leaf of my life in this book. 
I did not to church go last Sabbath ; it looked 
Like a storm, and I was not quite well. But to-day 
We all of us went, and I thought I would stay 
For the service this evening ; so did not come home ; 
With a friend passed the interim. Father alone 
Came over this evening. My friend did not go 
To church to-night with me ; my Antony, though, 
Was there morn and eve ; but he sat in his pew. 
And we had a new tenor ; so he has got through 
With the choir, I conclude. On my going to-night 
To service, I passed by his house ; 'twas twilight ; 
The windows were open, and lie stood near one, 
Bending over a table with his oldest son. 
Both consulting a large book then lying thereon. 
I know not if he saw me ; but had not been long 
In church, when I saw them come in ; and while she 
Was taking her seat, my friend turned towards me 



STOLEN WATERS. 169 

His dear face, with a smile most impassioned and sweet ; 

And my cheek slightly flushed, and my foolish heart beat 

Just the least trifle faster, I own ; it did seem 

So strange, to see him sit downstairs ! And I deem 

It a pleasant coincidence our seats should be 

So near to each other. Presume, though, that he 

Will not be at church half the time, now he sings 

No more in the choir. " There comes ever something 

Between us and what we our happiness deem." 

I shall now see my friend only rarely, I ween ! 



October 2d, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Four wearisome months have flown tardily past, 
Since I opened this book, and made in it my last 
Brief record. And though there has, in the mean time. 
Been events of slight import to me and to mine, 
I have not been desirous of writing them down ; 
Had no wish to commune with a heart I have found 
More rebellious, and more uncontrollable too, 
Then I care to acknowledge, now, even to you. 
My Journal and confidante. 

All summer long 
We have had visitors, and the last are just gone. 
My father went out West some three months ago, 
Returning last week. As for me, you must know 
I've been doing my best to attempt to forget 
Scenes and friends of the past, but whose influence yet 
8 



170 STOLEir WATERS. 

Is felt in my heart. And my efforts have been 

Of but little avail ; and now, down deep within 

My heart, I am forced to acknowledge a fact 

I was long in discovering; one, also, that 

I would now fain ignore ; and a truth, that to me 

Is so full of bitterness, giief, misery, 

And humiliation, it does seem, at times, 

As if I could hardly endure it. How blind 

I have been ! but my eyes are wide open at last ; 

And I now know, and bitterly know, why the past 

Is yet so indelibly stamped on my heart ; 

Wliy I find it impossible, even a part 

Of a certain three months to forget ; and wherein 

Lies the charm which has bound me so strongly to him ; 

Why I never could break the enchantment, and feel 

That I once more was free. No ! I cannot conceal 

From myself any longer, the fact that the thrall 

That for months has enslaved me is this : That, with all 

The intenseness and depth of my nature, I love 

Him^ my Antony dearest ! And that far above 

All others he stands in my heart ; and that no 

Separation, or silence, or coolness, although 

It might make me both grieved and indignant, could change, 

Or serve in the slightest degree to estrange 

My affection for him. I ma}- not ever see 

Him again, unless 'tis at a distance, and he 

May not even one tender thought give to me; 

But yet he's my love, and my darling, my own ! 

And happiness, freedom, and peace, have all flown 

From my heart, to make room for the unwelcome guest 

Which I fain would exclude. For, it must be confessed, 



STOLEN WA2ERS. 171 

The knowledge is not verj grateful and sweet, 

Nor does it afford to me happiness deep. 

Can it be, though, that T^ independent and proud, 

I, who, more than once, scornfully have avowed 

I could think naught of one who did not care for me, 

And imagined that I was " heart-whole, fancy-free " — 

jTam forced to confess, that not only unsought, 

Unreturned, I have loved, but — the most bitter thought 

Of all others, where none with much sweetness are fraught — 

I have in my heart shrined the face of a man 

Who is bound to another, and who never can 

Anything be to me. God forgive me, I pray, 

And pity me, too ! 

In the weeks passed away 
Since herein I wrote last, I've a new method tried 
To make me forget. A flirtation, that vied 
With the last one in nothing ; and was, on my side, 
Carried on with such weary indifference, it 
Could me not much pleasure afford, I admit. 
I hoped to forget, in another's fond smile. 
One wliose sweetness had done, oh ! so much to beguile 
My heart from its peace. But the man was not one 
I could ever care much for ! and now it is done — 
The flirtation — and all there is left is a few 
Fond letters, well-written and kind, it is true. 
And a photograph. With not a thought of regret, 
I have laid them away. 

Many letters I yet 
From Colonel Allair am receiving. He writes 
Notes most pleasing and fine ; and he says he is quite 
Captivated by our correspondence ; and ne'er 
Will forget me, he knows ! Well ! perhaps not ; if e'er 



172 STOLEN WATERS. 

He is tried, we shall see! But we always agree, 

Never jar in the least. Says he hopes to see me 

Before very long, as his time has expired, 

And he'll now soon be home. I can't say I've desired 

To see him this fall very much, and presume 

He will alter his mind about coming so soon 

When he my next letter receives. 

I have been 
To church frequently, but have rarely seen him. 
One morn, I remember, when going up town, 
I saw him on a car that passed by, coming down. 
How glad just that one passing glimpse made me feel! 
Though a sli;3;lit tinsre of sadness began soon to steal 
O'er my heart, as the old potent charm was revived, 
Bringing with it vain longings for what was denied. 
I felt all the morn, I perhaps should see him, 
But hoped that to church my dear friend would have been, 
I went up to-day. He was there ; neither gave 
To the other much notice ; in fact nothing, save 
An occasional most careless glance. And he went 
Out of church j ust ahead of me, talking intent 
With a gentleman friend. Afterwards, I passed by 
Him so closely, my dress must have brushed him ; but I 
Neither spoke, nor yet looked, just as if he was not 
My Antony dearest ! and in all my thoughts. 



STOLEN WATERS. 173 

October ZOth, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Was in town yesterday, and went into his store. 
I have not for a long time been in there before. 
I did not inquire for him, purchased a book, 
And while I was doing so he came to look 
For something near where I was standing, and asked 
His partner some question about it, then passed 
Back, returning a moment thereafter, and stood 
By the counter, where when I should pass out I could 
But see him. I sometimes have thought that he would 
Ne'er again speak to me ; I have so many times 
Decidedly cut him ; but he was as kind. 
Yesterday, in his manner as ever ; and I 
Of course bowed and smiled too, as him I passed by. 
But though I was outwardly calm and serene, 
I trembled excessively ; but did not mean 
He should know I was moved ; neither did he, I ween. 

Were to-day both at church. He, my dearest, and 1 1 
And his eye met my own more than once. By the by, 
I think he still likes his quondam " Bitter-Sweet," 
Just a little, and no one with him can compete 
In m^/ heart, no person at least that I've met. 
Though I may see some one that I like better, yet. 



174 STOLEN WATERS. 

N'ovemher \^th, 1864. 

SATURDAY. 

Been to cliurch only once since the last time I wrote, 
And naught has occurred that is worthy of note. 
That day I remained all the noon time in church. 
Went up in the choir for the first time, in search 
Of traces of him ; but found nothing ; but sat 
For a moment within the dear " corner ;" in fact, 
In the very same spot where toj friend used to sit, 
But one brief year ago ; and from it to transmit 
Many thoughts, looks, and smiles down to me. 

Do you know, 
My dear Journal, that it was just one year ago 
Yesterday that I sent my first letter to him ? 
How brimful of sweet recollections they've been — 
The two days just passed. I wrote him, by the way, 
A note to remind him of it, and to-day 
Was in town, and went into his place, but did not 
Have a chance to deliver, without doing what 
I disliked very much — to inquire for him ; so 
I purchased a book, went where else I'd to go, 
And returned, and accomplished my object that time. 
How handsome he looked ! and how pleasant and kind 
Was his smile and his tone, as he took from my hand 
The parcel I gave. He is splendid, and grand ! 
My letter ran nearly like this : 
<'J[/y dear ' John' ! 

" Don't it look to you singular, some* 
what, that form 



STOLEN WATERS. 175 

Of address at ^\q head of a letter of mine ? 
!For though I have written the same many times', 
To you before, never ! I write to you now, 
Not thinking you'll care much to hear, I'll allow, 
But because I just now know not what else to do, 
And because I feel, too, just like writing to you. 
I have not forgotten how wrong it is, though, 
I wish that I could ! But I ask you for no 
Reply, and write only because to me 'tis 
A gratification. 

" Do you know it is 
Just one year to-day, since my first note to you 
I wrote and despatched ? It does seem, it is true. 
Hardly possible, but so it is ! Ah, my dear, 
This cold, wintry weather, so frosty and clear. 
Brings back very forcibly old times to me. 
Does it to you also, my own ' Antony ? ' 
And do you ever think, I would much like to know, 
Of iliis time, but one little, brief year ago ? 
A smile quite invohmtary sometimes says 
You have not entirely forgotten ' B. S !' 
As to me, I like you j ust as well now as then ; 
I liked you the first time I saw you, and when 
Our brief correspondence was closed, you, my friend, 
"Were not the less dear ; and I like you, too, still. 
Although inconsiderate, unkind, you will ♦ 

Admit that you often have been — will you not ? 
I remember of your saying, once, that you thought 
There was, 'tween the sexes, no such thing as love ! 
That 'twas mostly mere passion — or that was above 
Pure affection predominant. -Z^ don't believe 
You really thought so ; nor did you conceive, 



176 



STOLEN WATERS. 



My dear * J^ohn^ how conclusively tliat remark proved, 

Though sixteen years married, you never have loved. 

If this is your opinion, I differ with you ! 

For I — shall I say ' love ' f yes ! for it is true. 

That it, in this case, means no more than I like. 

And I think it is, too, somewhat easier to write — 

Yes, love you I but not with one passionate thought. 

Am contented to see you, and, though I would not 

Be sorry to have an occasional chat 

With you, my dear friend, I am well aware that 

I have to your love and caresses no right. 

Nor do I care for them. It is to me quite 

Immaterial whether you like me or no ; 

If you treat me unkindly or kindly ; and so, 

You see, nor your smiles nor your frowns can disturb 

My calm equanimity ; neither can curb 

Or enhance the full flow of my spirits. 

" I thought 
I saw you a few days ago, but was not 
Quite certain of it — on Broadway, I believe. 
Trusting you will with pleasure this letter receive, 
And sending you love and a kiss, 'till we meet, 
I am still and am only, 

"Your own, 

" Bitter-Sweet." 



STOLEN WATERS. I'?"? 



December Wth, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

December ! and almost the middle again ! 
Can it be that a whole year has flown by since when 
I, with trembling delight, received letters from him 
Who is still more to me than all others have been ? 
This fatal and singular passion ! will it 
Be never quite conquered ? And must I admit 
That my heart beats in fetters I'm powerless to break? 

A heavy snow-storm, yesterday, could but make 
It impossible I should go up town to-day. 
I wonder if he was at church, by the way, 
If my seat looked forsaken, and if my friend wished 
That I had been there, or my presence once missed. 



December ISth, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

To-day was a beautiful one ! and I went 
To the old church this morning ; and he, my dear friend, 
Was there, and alone. In fact, " she " has not been 
For some time at service. I could not see him 
As he sat at the first, but then some one came in, 
And he moved to the end of the pew. I would liked 
To have been one seat back. Thought I noticed him write 
8* 



178 STOLEN WATERS. 

During prayer, but I miglit been mistaken. He came 
Across after service, and passed down the same 
Aisle with me, and directly behind me, in fact, 
And with our soprano conversing ; and that. 
Of course, made me jealous. Her husband, although, 
Was with her. And what he was writing, also. 
For her might have been, or it might been for me, 
And no chance to give it he had. Indeed, he 
Might not written at all. I distinctly could hear, 
As we came out, the tones of his voice, of that dear. 
Perfect voice, which I've heard very little of late ! 
Those musical, fine, tenor tones ! which vibrate 
On my ear ever sweetly. To-day I could see 
He was some agitated ; perhaps it might be 
From his then close proximity — was it? — to me ? 
Or caused by the woman with whom he conversed ? 
I dislike her 1 Was jealous of her from the fi.rst. 

We've a houseful of visitors ; have, in fact, had. 
With but short intervals, since July. I'll be glad 
When we're once more alone ; for I am all the time 
So unhappy, or blue, or despondent, I find 
It an unceasing strain on my heart and my mind, 
And my nerves, and my temper, to be with my friends 
Even decently sociable. What wonder, then. 
That visitors bore me, and that I would fain 
They were gone, that we might become quiet again ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 179 



December 25th, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Cliristmas greeting to you, my dear Journal, once more! 
Went up town last evening, and called at the store 
On my way, and saw hiniy too, my dearest ! Did not 
Have a chance, though, for speaking. Did he give a thought, 
I wonder, to one year ago, or to me ? 
In the chapel last eve was a concert and " tree ; " 
I went, and remained with a friend for the nisfht. 
Went to service to-day, and I icas surprised, quite 

To see Mrs. , his wife, was there also, with him, 

Looking fair, and as fresh, too, as ever. Had been 

A long time since I'd seen her before. We'd to-day 

A fine Christmas sermon, indeed, I must say. 

This P.M. went to Sabbath-school, then returned home. 

On my way to the car passed his house : and E own, 

What I saw there both pleased and surprised me some, too ! 

Sitting back from the window, and yet in plain view, 

Was my Antony dearest! and close in his arms 

A bundle of cambric, and soft flannel warm. 

Containing a baby, I could but suppose. 

Sleeping sweetly, an infant's undreaming repose, 

In arms that would fain shield from all earthly woes, 

That tiny, frail blossom. I think Leonid sleep. 

Held within such a clasp, a sleep dreamless and deep — • 

Sleep forever ! and never again wake to weep. 

" 'Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold 

While his arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold," 



180 STOLEN WATERS. 

r 

That is what I had never expected to see — 
A baby in his arms, " my own Antony." 

One thing somewhat vexes me : I've sometimes thought 
Of late — though perhaps it is fancy — from what 
I have noticed at church, that not only his friend 
Mr. F., but his wife, from beginning to end, 
Knows about our acquaintance. And yet, I can't think 
He could make a jest of it I Feel he would shrink 
From aught so unworthy ; yet, think I will write 
And give him a chance for defence, if he likes, 
Not condemn him unheard, which would hardly be right. 



December 2>\st, 18644 

SATURDAY. 

Last Tuesday our visitors all went away, 
And I wrote a letter, I think, the same day. 
To my Antony, as in my last record here 
I thought I should do. Stated first, full and clear, 
My suspicions, and grounds for the same ; the eflfect 
Such thoughts could but have on my mind, hoping yet 
I might be mistaken. Would be but too glad 
Could he prove to the contrary ; and if he had 
Any wish to himself exculpate, or had aught 
To say on the subject, I'd meet him, I thought, 
Between one and three on the next afternoon. 
If he chose to go up, at the L.'s reading-room. 
The next day was stormy, but in the p.m. 
Looked a little like clearing, so started ; but when 



STOLEN WATERS. 181 

I had walked a few blocks it was raininsr acfain. 

For a car I then waited a long time in vain, 

So walked to the feriy. I caught one at last, 

On the other side, tho' ; 'twas a few minutes past 

Three o'clock when I reached the Library ; and he • 

"Was not, of course, there at that hour. As for me, 

Though 1 would have braved anything to have gone — • 

Did brave fearful travelling, a severe storm — 

Yet regretted my folly when it was too late ; 

Came home with the world out of humor, with fate 

And myself in particular ; and in a state 

Of discomfort in body, as well, being both 

Cold and wet. Though I saw him not, still I am loth, 

Even yet, to believe my own charges. I could 

Not love him at all, I am sure, if I should. 

Many things might prevented his keeping that day 

The appointment I made. And indeed, though, he may 

Have been there and gone ; or my letter might not 

Have reached him in time ; or else he may have thought 

That it was so stormy, I would not be there. 

I'll give him one more chance. 

I hope 'twill be fair 
To-morrow, for I very much wish to go 
Up to church in the morning ; but all day the snow 
Has fallen unceasingly ; so I shall be 
Obliged to stay home, very likely, I see. 

To-day is the last of this changeable year ! 
So filled with both sorrow and joy, hope and fear. 
The last hours are speeding I All day I have thought 
Of one year ago — of those hours that were frauf^ht 
With so much of gladness to me ! Of that day. 
The happiest ever I spent, I must say. 



182 STOLEN WATEB8. 

I shall never forget it ! I wonder if he 
Remembers it, too — if he but cared for me 
Only just half as much as I do about him ! 
And, indeed, how do J^know, but down deep within 
The m#st sacred room in his heart, there is traced 
My name, and in letters which naught can efface ? 
He is not demonstrative, and it may be 
I am more to him, even, than he is to me. 
Farewell to the year " sixty-four," so replete 
With associatix)ns both bitter and, sweet ! 



J'anuary 2dj 1865. 

MONDAY, 

It " made believe " storm all the day yesterday, 
And there were no paths ; consequently, away 
From church I of course was obliged to remain ; 
So my " New Year's Day " this year, both opened and 

waned. 
Without having been noted by any event 
Of import ; and so did the last, yet I've spent 
Few days that were more fully happy than that. 
And neither was this quite unhappy, in fact. 
And to-day has been jubulant ! For, this A.M., 
The carrier came here with letters ; and when 
He had given me two, he then said, " Let me see 
If 1 have not another for you ! " and then he 
Passed me one, too, from — Aim, my own darling ! and I 
Could not tell you, my Journal, e'en tho' I should try, 
How surprised and how pleased I was, too, to once more 
Have a letter in his well-known hand, as of yore. 



STOLEN WATERS. 183 

It was both short and cold ; but a very few lines ; 

Yet more precious to this wayward, fond heart of mine, 

Than words of the most ardent love from another. 

'Twas addressed my whole name ; and on each of the others' 

He has my initials used only, and I 

Did not know that he knew what it was. 

By the by, 
I ought to have had it on Saturday. States 
Keceived mine on Thursday; adds, ^' one day too late.'*'* 
Said — 

" You do me, indeed, gross injustice ! I'm no 
Such person. Should written you some time ago. 
But did not know where to address, and do not 
Hardly think this will reach you." 

I never had thought 
Of his writing, and so, did not send my address. 
That was all that he wrote. There was not, I confess. 
In that, aught to go into ecstasies o'er ; 
Yet, coming from him, it has given me more 
Of pleasure and gladness than aught else could do ; 
And has rendered my New Year most happy, 'tis true. 
I sat down at once and wrote him a reply, 
Both loving and long; looked it o'er — laid it by. 
And taking a fresh sheet, another one wrote, 
As brief and as cold as his own icy note. 
There was a great contrast the letters between ! 
One the heart had dictated, from th' wealth and the sheen 
Of its jubilant love ; and the other was traced 
By a hand which was guided alone by strait-laced 
Decorum, and cold, worldly pride ; and the one 
Which I sent was the last. 

One more day is now done. 
And auspiciously one more New Year has begun ! 



184: STOLEN WATERS, 

tTanuary Ibth, 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I made an appointment for Tuesday, p.m., 
But it rained hard all day ; consequently again 
It was missed. Yesterday I'd a letter, although, 
Saying any P.M. of next week he would go 
To the L. to meet me. 

To-day the wind blew 
Exceedingly hard, and 'twas " bitter cold," too ; 
But I went up to church. I'd forgotten to say 
That a steward to me came, I think the last day 
I was up there, and asked me if I would object 
To sitting one seat farther back ; he could let 
Our pew to advantage, and thought as 'twas rare 
For any of us, but myself, to be there. 
That we did not care the whole seat to retain, 
And that I'd very probably not mind the change. 
And did I ? Well ! not very much, I admit, 
And certainly made no objection to it. 
For, of course, if I sat just one pew farther back, 
I should then be directly opposite that 
Occupied by my Antony dearest. If we 
Both should at the inner end sit, there would be 
But a thin, low partition between us. This morn, 
I did not know what was decided upon, 
So took my old place. The new occupants, though. 
Were there. This p.m. there was service, also, 
To the mem'ry of one of our fallen heroes. 
They were there, too, and thought it quite strange, I sup* 
pose, 



STOLEN WATERS. 185 

To notice the change ; or, at least, she stared some 

When I took my new seat. The number of one 

Of the first hymns, she failing to catch, at once looked 

At him, but his eyes were then bent on his book ; 

With a gesture just slightly impatient she then 

Turned to me, so I passed her my hymn-book, and when 

She returned it, of course bowed and smiled pleasantly ; 

We were both in the corner, and so could but be 

Yery near to each other. How little she knew 

Of the ties indissoluble binding us two ! 

That she was the one only barrier between 

Him and me, in more senses than one, too, I ween ! 

For as she sat between us at service to-day, 

So in all things she parts us, both now and alway. 



tTanuary 27th, 1865. 

FRIDAY. 

Last week an appointment for Thursday I made, 
And again were frustrated my plans, so well laid. 
One of the L.'s patrons is recently dead, 
And I in the paper on Wednesday eve read 
That the L. would be closed on the following day. 
I was much disappointed and vexed, I must say. 
But I not being able to help it, was forced 
To make the best of it ; supposing, of course. 
That he would have seen the same notice, also, 
That morning at latest, and so would not go. 
But lest he should not have, I wrote him again, 



186 STOLEN WATERS, 

Saying why I that day should not come in, and then 

Making one more appointment for Tuesday P.M. 

There seems on our meeting to be a spell set ! 

But all obstacles only make stronger yet 

My will and desire him to see. It has been, 

Oh, such a long time since I've spoken with him, 

Since my hand with fond pressure has been clasped in his I 

Almost a whole, long, weary year. Yet he is 

My love, and my dearest ! and what wonder, then, 

I desire with insatiable longing again 

To stand face to face, hand to hand, with the man 

Who to me is so much ; and that also I am 

Quite ready to sacrifice any amount 

Of pride to accomplish my wish ; and would count 

It all nothing, compared to an hour's chat with him? 

And thus far, in fact, our acquaintance has been 

A sacrifice constant of pride on my part. 

Pride is strong — strong enough ! but yet love in my heart 

Is more potent still ! and I've found, it is true, 

That in a contest 'tween the sentiments two. 

Love always is conqueror ; that I'm a slave. 

And each effort to sunder the fetters, which chafe 

Me so sorely, but rivets my chains stronger yet. 

While I 'neath their claukings still hopelessly fret. 

When Tuesday arrived I in town went once more, 
And stopped on my way to the L. at the store. 
He was in ; I was certain he saw me, though I 
Did not speak with him. Oh ! but I bought, by the by, 
A paper, the first one I thought of, and found 
When carelessly looking its columns a-down. 
The first poem he sent me, " You Kissed Me ! " was in i 
I "Went to the L. and I waited, while minute 



STOLEN WATERS. 187 

By minute flew on, and still he did not come. 

I at last gave him up, and then started for home. 

Yexed, provoked was I ? No ; those words cannot express 

Half how angry I was. Far more so, I confess, 

Than heretofore ever I have been with him. 

Feeling certain he knew very well I was in. 

And that, if he had not intended to go. 

Or could not, he might at the least have said so 

When I went in the store, why, how could I but feel 

Very angry, indeed ? Neither did I conceal 

How incensed I then was, in the letter I sent. 

I was very cross with him, and also meant 

He should know it. 

To-day, I received a reply. 
Though its contents were read with a quite tearless eye, 
In my heart was such sorrow as never before 
It has known ; for I felt sure that now was all o'er, 
And stransjers we were to become evermore ! 
But I was not conscious how plainly was traced 
The grief and despair I then felt, in my face. 
Till a friend coming in had expressed much concern, 
Being sure I was ill. I could but have discerned 
From his note, that he was, indeed, only less vexed 
Than I was when I wrote. Neither was I perplexed, 
After reading his letter, the reason to know. 
Nor could I then wonder at his feeling so. 
He never has sent me one cross word before ; 
And I— well ! I've written to him many more 
Cross letters than kind ones, I'm fearful ; but then, 
I get angry one minute, the next pleased again, 
While a person not easily vexed frequently 
Retains their displeasure some time. And so he, 



188 STOLEN WATERS, 

Having once got provoked, or in anger at me, 

Will now not forgive me, I fear, readily. 

My " note was insulting," he wrote, and I could 

But acknowledge its truth. He presumed that it would 

Not be in accordance with etiquette, should 

He a lady's word doubt ; and that therefore, as I 

Said I knew that he saw me, he had in reply 

Naught to say. And again, both appointments he kept ; 

The first time he found the L. closed, and the next 

No one there that he knew ; and as he the last two 

Had kept, so he should not the next. 

What to do, 
I at first hardly knew. But then, conscious that I 
Had wronged him, I could do no less, in reply. 
Than acknowledge my error, and thus make amends 
For my unjust, intemperate language, and send 
An apology too, stipulating that he 
His forgiveness should prove by his keeping with me 
The appointment which I should make next ; so I wrote, 
And he will to-morrow, I think, have my note. 



Fehruary 7th, 1865. 



TUESDAY. 



Nothing new or of import, since here I wrote last. 
Have not been to service for two Sabbaths past ; 
So him I have not seen, and neither have I 
Received any letter from him, in reply 



STOLEN WATEB8. 189 

To the one which I sent more than one week ago. 

If he could pass that by unanswered, I know 

Not what he is made of. I sent this p.m. 

A very cool note, and appointing again 

A meeting for Thursday. And failure this time 

Will crush out all hope from this poor heart of mine ; 

Forced to yield to despair, I will never again 

Expect aught but misery, sorrow, and pain. 

" He tosses me bitterness," truly ! Must I 

"With a stone be contented when bread is so nigh, 

Or with husks, just because the fruit's hanging so high? 



Februa/ry 9thy 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Far more happy to-night than my words can portray, 
I have seated myself, the events of to-day 
To transcribe in my book ; but my heart is so light, 
So jubilant, joyful, and so filled with bright. 
Sweet thoughts, hopes, emotions, I scarce can compose 
Myself to write calmly, this evening, of those 
Events and sweet feelings. 

Well, J^need not say, 
I presume, my dear Journal, what rendered this day 
Such a glad one to me ! What has rolled far away 
Tlie lowering clouds, shown the bright " silver lining," 
That " behind the dark cloud is the sun still shining." 
And that ever 'tis " darkest just previous to dawn." 
What else could have turned into roseate mom 



190 STOLEN WATER8. 

My heart's midniglit, except that to-day I've seen him, 
And that he is still, that he ever has been, 
My dearest dear friend ! 

This P.M. I went in, 
And at the Library I waited for him 
Until three o'clock, when — he came*! What a bound 
Of delight my heart gave, as my darling came down 
The long room, to where J^was then sitting! How bright 
Was the smile on his lips, and how sweet the soft light 
In his eye, and how pleasant his musical tones, 
As he murmured his greeting, and pressed in his own. 
With warm fondness, the hand which I gave! Then he 

drew 
A chair close to mine, and sat down. And I knew, 
Without farther words, that my love was " still true." 
What a nice chat we had ! and all, too, was explained 
To my satisfaction, 'till no thought remained 
In my heart but of kindness for him ; and it seems 
All the trouble was caused by his " prudence " extreme. 
He likes me just as well now as ever before. 
And I — well ! I own that I like him far more 
Than words can express ! 

Oh ! the reason that I 
To my penitent letter have had no reply. 
Was that he was away, so it was not received 
Until his return — I think yesterday eve — 
When he found it awaiting him, also my last. 
Appointing to-day's interview. So we passed 
An hour or two there in the most pleasant chat ; 
And, as we were coming away, he said that 
If Td not get cross any more, he would be 
A good boy in the future. He also asked me, 



STOLEN WATERS. 191 

Once or twice, when I thought I'd be in town again ; 
And said, too, that if I would let him know when 
He'd try and come up. I of course was too glad 
To promise. We walked to my car, where he bade 
Me good-by, and then left me. 

How sweet 'tis, once more 
To feel we are friends ! all unpleasantness o'er. 
All diflference reconciled ! What wonder, then. 
In my heart smiles and sunshine are nestling again ? 



February 12th, 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I have nothing to write of since Thursday, except 
Our sweet reconcilement, and perfect, has kept 
My heart constantly buoyant and glad. Was to-day 
Up at church, though it snowed when I started away, 
And was bitterly cold. He was not there this morn, 
And I thought possibly on account of the storm 
Might not be this afternoon either. Of late 
We've service had in the p.m., I must state, 
Instead of the evening, as usual. I'd not 
Have gone up to church this cold day, but I thought 
I would much like to know ii my friend would appear 
Any different now than before. Well ! my fears 
In regard to his absence were all put to flight 
When I saw him come in. We were both of us quite 



192 STOLEN WATERS. 

Alone in our pews, so had nothing to do 

But look at each other ; and we improved, too, 

To advantage, the rare opportunity. He 

Sent such loving glances and smiles, too, to me ; 

Kept constantly turned toward me, in his face 

The same look which I used to see there in the days 

Long gone by. And it did seem like " old times," indeed, 

And I fancy that neither of us gave much heed 

To the doubtless fine sermon; at least Xdid not, 

And believe that he, also, had never a thought 

But for me. My own darling ! How much I love him. 

How exquisitely happy this Sabbath has been! 

And I felt fully paid, too, for going, although 

The weather was very inclement. I know 

That I toward him can feel never again 

As I have recently — until last Thursday — when 

" Old things passed away, and all things became new." 

By the way — and quite a coincidence, too, 

I thought it — -jusfc one year ago, at the time 

We to-day sat in church, at the same hour, in fine, 

He and I were together in my dear old home 

In New York, for the last time. I did not, I own, 

Kemember it then. And I wish I had, too ! 

I wrote a few words, and dropped into his pew 
The paper on which they were traced. He did not 
Perceive it, although and therefore, as I thought 
That some one might find it whom X would not care 
To have see or read it, I told him 'twas there 
When we met at the door, and he went back for it. 
I of course could not wait for him ; that, I admit, 
Would have been hardly " prudent ;" but if he saw fit 



STOLEN WATERS. 103 

He could join me. But Mr. S., when lie came out, 

Took his arm very coolly, walked with him about 

Two blocks, and then left him. The rest of the way 

I had him myself; and although, I dare say, 

It was highly " imprudent " — our walking together — 

'Twas none the less pleasant. It stormed, and the weath ' 

"Was fearfully cold, yet I gave it no thought ; 

His presence with life, warmth, and sunshine was fraught. 



February 23d, 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Nearly two pleasant weeks have now glided away 
Since my last record here. I had made for to-day 
An appointment. 'Twas cloudy, and so, hardly knew 
About going in, what 'twas best I should do. 
At length I decided I would ; and was glad 
Afterward that I did so. A book, that I had 
Been wishing to purchase, I ordered through him. 
So I thought on my way to the L. I'd stop in 
At his place, get my book, also thus ascertain 
Was he going up ; that I might not in vain 
Have to wait if he could not. He sat near the door, 
And he seldom remains in that part of the store. 
He sprang up to speak to me, keeping me there 
For more than an hour. It was quite private where 
"We were standing, and not many people were in. 
But Td not the slightest idea I'd been 



194 STOLEN WATERS. 

There so long ; and was quite surprised, too, I must say, 
That he wished — as was evident — that I should stay. 
And wonder he thought it quite " prudent." Away 
Time rapidly hastened, and forced me to leave. 

To a masquerade ball, they were going this eve, 

He and Mrs. , his wife. I tried to induce 

Him to tell me where now were my letters. No use 

I found it to coax or to tease ; he refused 

To inform me, or rather he told me, 'tis true, 

So many improbable stories, I knew 

Not which to believe. I asked him if he'd come 

Out to see me some time; but he thought he'd not run 

Any risk ; I inquired, if for no other one 

He had risked any more. Said, decidedly, " No ! " 

"Very flattering, truly ! Perhaps it is so. 

** With ease we believe what we ardently wish 

To be true ! " He, liowever, did promise me this : 

That if the next summer our people should be 

Away, about three hundred miles, leaving me 

All alone, he would try and come over. He would 

Go up to the L. the next time, if he could 

Get away from the store. Would have gone up to-day. 

Very likely, if I had not called on the way. 

Many thoughts and sweet ones of my dearest to-night ! 

God bless and preserve him 'till morning's fair light ! 



STOLEN WATERS, 195 



May 2>\st, 1865. 

WEDNESDAY.' 

The last day of May ! And I find it has been 
Three months, and more even, since I have within 
These pages a single word traced. Also find, 
Glancing backward a little, this journal of mine 
Has of late more a simple heart-record become. 
Than aught else beside. The truth is, to no one 
Can I speak of the pain which at times I have found 
Unbearable quite. And the festering wound 
Forced to ever conceal, it to me gives relief 
Sometimes to give utterance here to my grief. 
And therefore I write of it. Common events 
Have, of late, been to me of so little moment, 
I have come to ignore them all here, though each week 
And each day brings its own, either bitter or sweet. 

And as to my love, we have met now and then, 
Sometimes at the store, at the L., or again 
A few times at church, once or twice in the street. 
He has been just as charming whene'er we did meet, 
But I've made some appointments that he did not keep, 
And sent him some letters, to which a reply 
I have failed to receive. I wrote him, by the by, 
About three weeks ago, a short note, to which I, 
Requesting an answer, directed it sent 
** To remain at the office 'till called for." I went 



196 STOLEN WATERS. 

In town to tlie L. — though it stormed — on the day 

I looked for it ; when coming down, on Broadway, 

I saw on the opposite side of the street, 

A face and a form too familiar to meet 

Or pass without notice. He did not, although, 

Perceive me. Ere I reached him he crossed to Park Kow, 

And taking a car moved away toward home, 

Entirely unconscious his " Antony's own " 

Had so nearly met him. I should have been glad 

"With him just a few moments' chat to have had. 

As a matter of course ; but I thought I would be 

Quite contented if I should find waiting for me, 

At the office, a letter from him, as I hoped. 

And I did ; and a splendid one, too ; and I oped 

And its contents with eager impatience perused. 

And that for a time in my spirits infused 

New life, strength, and joy. By the way, we, I find, 

Both gave up our pews in church at the same time. 

And each quite unknown to the other. 

This eve, 
I again write myself disappointed ! Believe 
No one ever was disappointed so much ! 
I must give him up. I can otot endure such 
AsaTavation and torture much lonorer. I am 
Of comfort and peace destitute. And how can 
Any one be so cruel as he is, at times ! 
He is more than provoking, is more than unkind. 
And yet, I suppose he does not mean to be, 
Does not know how fearfully he torments me. 
Many times I've resolved I would never again 
Either write him or make an appointment ; and then 



STOLEN WATERS. 197 

Irresistible longings for tidings of him, 

Or desires for one glimpse of his dear face, have been 

Triumphant, my good resolutions dispelled. 

And while pride remonstrated, and I have felt 

To the utmost my folly, have written again. 

Why my fate must it been to have loved thus in vain ? 

But I will not complain ; right and best, I doubt not, 

It is, and rebellion is quelled by the thought 

That underneath all there's a loncc-broken vow. 

"Would I could forget him ! nor ever allow 

Him a place in my heart any more. 

I intend 
At the sea-shore to pass a few weeks with some friends, 
And expect to go soon. So, my Journal friend dear, 
Until my return, I shall write no more here. 



July 20th, 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

At home once again ! And how pleasant it seems ! 
" There is no place like home ; " and although all my dreams 
Of pleasure were fully, I think, realized. 
And the time gayly passed by in sails, walks, and drives, 
Yet sometimes my heart turned with longing, I own. 
To the quiet and peace of my dearly -loved home. 
While absent, some letters I had from a friend. 
One with whom, I believe, I have previous to then 
Had no correspondence. Permission to write 
He requested, and J^ thought perhaps that it might 
Be to me pleasant, also, so gave my consent ; 
Stipulating, however, in its commencement, 



198 STOLEN WATERS. 

No love-passage there should be in it. He thought 

Of the " heart disease " I'd a slight touch, but 'twould not 

A lasting blight prove. Would that he might be right ! 

He wrote me nice letters, and though I was quite 

Glad to have them, yet I, caring nothing for him, 

His letters in consequence, when they had been 

Once perused and replied to, could not be to me 

Of much farther value. 

From home frequently, 
Of course, heard while absent ; from Colonel All air 
Found, when I arrived, one awaiting me there. 
I also had five or six others from him ; 
Some from Annie, my friend, who a long time has been 
My dear correspondent ; and from my love — one ! 
I wrote him before my departure from home, 
To say I was going ; if he liked to write, 
I'd be most glad to hear. I'd been staying in quite 
A different part of the tow^n, a few days, 
And so, when again. I returned to the place 
Where my letters were sent, I found several there. 
And the first one I saw was addressed in his fair. 
Well-known hand. 'Twas not long, and neither was it 
Especially pleasing or kind, I admit. 
And I sent him no answer. Yet I was more glad 
To receive it than any besides that I had. 
Was not well — he wrote — and that letter to me 
Was the first he had written in some weeks ; and he 
Ought not even then to be writing. Had been 
Very busy indeed ; and expected, within 
A few days, out of town to remove ; but did not, 
Of course, tell me where, though he could but have thought 
I'd be anxious to know. 



STOLEN WATERS. 199 

Mamma now soon intends 
To go into tlie country a few weeks, and then 
I think that for him I may possibly send, 
And give him a chance to his promise redeem. 
As he will, if he yet cares about me, I ween ! 



August \st, 1865. 

TUESDAY. 

I am thoroughly wretched, and reckless as well ! 
What of late has come o'er me, I scarcely can tell ; 
But I've felt for awhile, as if at any cost 
I 'must have my love ! Ajid my heart, tempest-tossed 
And despairing, is utterly desperate now, 
And I will be something to him, I avow ! 
For him I have sacrificed my peace of mind. 
Independence, my pride, happiness, and, in fine. 
Everything hut my honor — am tempted to say 
That if I can have him in no other way. 
Even that shall go also. To him, all the deepest, 
And freshest, and fondest, the purest, and sweetest 
Emotions and thoughts of a heart only he 
Has power to thrill — all the wealth of a free 
And impassioned first love — and one, too, felt to be 
The one love of my life — has been long consecrated, 
And he cares for it nothing ! I am aggravated 
Endurance beyond ; past resistance am tempted ; 
Exhausted with being from pain ne'er exempted ; 



200 STOLEN WATERS. 

And weary, and heart-sick of struggles to gain 
The mastery over this hopeless, and vain, 
This humiliating, tormenting, and quite 
Uncontrollable love. Indignation, grief, pride. 
On my part — indifference, coldness, neglect. 
On his own, do not have e'en the slightest effect. 
Except more completely to make me the slave 
Of this fierce, overpowering passion. Things grave. 
And not pleasant, are these to acknowledge, I know ; 
Nor anywhere else but here could I do so. 
But all confidences are sacred with you. 
My Journal, my friend ever silent and true ! 
Feeling thus, I have written a letter to him, 
And written like this : 

"My Dear < Jb^w.-' 

" Opening 
My casket of letters, the first thing that met 
My eye was one written by you, and not yet 
Acknowledged. My time being quite occupied 
While I was away, and I having, besides,' 
Many letters to write, I did not answer yours — ■ 
As it would not matter to you, I felt sure. 
But since having seen it this morning, of you 
I've been thinking much ; our relations unto 
Each other reviewed, and have now come to write 
To you the result. 

" In the first place, I'm quite 
•Resolved upon this : that the state of things now 
Existing between us I will not allow 
To longer continue. You very well know 
It has been to me most aggravating, also 
Unpleasant, at times — our acquaintance — although 



STOLEN WATERS. 201 

I presume that it often has been my own fault, 

More than yours ; But some things have excessively galled 

My sensitive feelings, when probably you 

Were unconscious of giving offence. It is true, 

I have written you letters, and more than a few, 

Such as no gentleman to me ever would sent 

More than once ; and your very forbearance — well meant 

As I doubt not it was — has sometimes made me more 

Annoyed with you still. You have exercised o'er 

Me a strange fascination ; and, bent to your will 

My high spirit has been, and pride also, until 

I feel I can't longer endure it. I may 

Have told you, perhaps, the same thing ere to-day ; 

But then it was written on impulse, and now 

I am deeply in earnest ; and you will allow 

That if you have found me * all things at all times,' 

I at least have been always sincere ! 

" Now, in fine, 
I am ready to meet you upon your own terms, 
Or to meet you no more! just as you shall discern 
Will be best. You know very well why you came 
To see me the first time ; with 7notives the same 
If you now desire calling upon me again, 
I shall be glad to see you. You told me that when 
Mamma was ' three hundred miles distant,' you then 
Would come over ; and now is the time to fulfil 
The promise you made — and I'm sure that you will, 
If you have the slightest regard for me still. 
Should you come out here once, and you then do not choose 
To do so again, I will ask you to lose 
No more time for me. But I think you will not 
Jtegret it, if you should decide to come out. 
9 



202 STOLEN' WATERS. 

And I think that indeed it is much more for your 

Interest than it can be for mme, I am sure ! 

I expect to receive you on Wednesday p.m., 

Between one and five, unless I before then 

Hear something contrary ; and you will please write 

Should you fail to come out. 

" Now in closing, good-night 1 
With kind wishes for you, and with hopes we may meet 
Before many days, I am 

" Yours, 

" Bitter-Sweet." 

I do not much think he will come, but he may ; 
And suppose, that it too would be best every way, 
That he should not — for him, and me also — and still, 
Notwithstanding all " prudence," I do hope he will ! 



August 4:thj 1865. 

FRIDAY. 

My mother and Gertrude went off Wednesday morn, 
And some five or six weeks they will doubtless be gone. 
And when afternoon came I expected him some. 
As no note I'd received, saying he should not come. 
Watched and waited, but vainly. I did think he might 
Have written, at least ; though 'twas possible, quite, 
He intended to come, and could not get away, 
And 80 would be out on the following day. 



STOLEN WATERS. 203 

The next morning the carrier brought me a note 

From him, and my heart seemed to leap to my throat 

As I took off the wrapper, expecting to find 

That he could not or would not come out. But this time 

I was, if disappointed, agreeably so. 

I ought to have had it on Wednesday, although. 

As 'twas written the first. Said that he did not know 

Until the receipt of my letter, that day, 

That I had returned. Then he went on to say, 

Had business way down town that p.m., so he 

Thought that he'd steal an hour, and slip over to B. 

Told in detail his search for the house, and then writes : 

" I rang at the door, which was then open wide, 

At about three o'clock. A young lady replied 

To the summons, who was not B. S. ; so I thought 

I might justly conclude that your people had not 

Gone ' three hundred miles ' out of town, or else they 

Had come back in a hurry. Am going away 

To-morrow, and may return Friday ; if so, 

Will see you if possible." 

Well ! you must know. 
My Journal, this letter was, to the suspense 
And doubt I then felt, a relief most intense. 
I could not, at once, though, remember at all 
At that day and hour there had any one called. 
But at last recollected that some one did ring, 
And of Gertrude, who went to the door, directing 
A gentleman up the street farther ; and thought 
At the time, what a soft voice he had ; but did not 
Once dream of its being my friend ; and am glad 
That I did not go to the door. If I had 



204 STOLEN WATERS. , 

Some suspense, though, 'twould saved me, of course. But 

Gertrude 
Did not recoguize him at all, I conclude. 
I wondered if he heard me scolding ; I know 
I was fearfully nervous and cross ; thought also. 
He perhaps might have seen me ; I sat just inside 
The back-parlor, with both folding-doors open wide. 
But he said he did not. That was Tuesday ! the day 
Before mother and Gertrude were going away. 
And this afternoon he was here ! and is still 
My love ! and my darling ! I feel that until 
This day I've indeed never known him. I find 
I've often misjudged him ; for he, good and kind, 
Of the recklessness in my last letter expressed. 
No advantage did take ; but, instead, I confess. 
Treated me with the utmost respect. Friendship true, 
Kegard deep and warm, and much tenderness, too, 
"Was betrayed in each action and word ; and yet, he 
Not even at parting so much as kissed me ! 
Conclusively proved how unjust I had been. 
By an improper motive ascribing to him. 
In his first visits to me. 

I never can read 
Him at all ; and his heart is a sealed book indeed ! 
To think evil of Mm, I am too much inclined. 
So in this case, at least, I'm sure, love is not blind. 
I am so glad to find that my darling's so true ! 
And feel I have in fearful peril been, too. 
And thank God I am safe. For had he proved to be 
Less honorable — noble — had he tempted me — 
I know not — I might have had strength to resist, 
And natural virtue been roused to assist, 



STOLEN WATERS. 205 

But I'm thankful, at least, that I then was not tried. 
And that I have at length all his goodness descried. 

I stood talking with Bella, my friend, at her gate, 
And still hoping, although " my love he was late! " 
When I saw him approaching. My heart gave a bound 
And stood still, as I entered the house and sat down, 
And endeavored my turbulent pulses to calm, 
While I waited his coming, and knew that the man 
Whom I love " with a love passing knowledge," would 

soon — 
His dear self — be beside me in tliis very room. 

He has moved up to Harlem ; next door, I believe, 
To his father. He went about six. All the eve 
My head has ached fearfully ; so, without lights, 
I've sat in the window and dreamed. And the night 
Is perfectly lovely ! 

One more happy day ! 
Yet a happiness, doubtful, somewhat, I must say. 
He said he would come out again the next week. 
God bless him to-night, and from all danger keep ! 



August 5th, 1865. 

SATURDAY. 

Can it be that but yesterday he was with me ? 
That my hand was once more clasped in liis, and that he 
Then rested his dear head awhile on my knee ? 



206 STOLEN WATERS. 

For he, world-weary man — he, mj indolent boy, 

Must needs have a lounge, and my lap must employ 

As a pillow. Am blue to-day ! thoughts of " what might 

Have been," crowd so close on my heart, that in spite 

Of myself I am sad. I expected, to-day, 

A note from my late correspondent. Must say, 

Though none was received, I cared not ; for, as long 

As he is *' my own," what beside can I want ? 

My dear one ! yet not mine, and never can be. 

But I must not dwell upon this ; it makes me 

Too entirely unhappy. Ah, truly ! " The grief 

Of affection betrayed is but tame and brief 

Beside a forbidden love's utter despair ! " 

God pity and love me is my earnest prayer. 



August 6th J 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

One more breaking out of the old wound ! To-day 
I have been far more mis'rable than I can say. 
Have not been out at all ; and I hardly im,ve left, 
My room since the morn, and for hours I have wept. 
Wrote to mother, but only a note. Could not write. 
"Why cannot I conquer this passion, whose xicdght 
And intensity chokes me, and fills my poor heart 
With sadness so often ? Indeed ! we 7nust part ! 
I must give him up ; he can never be mine ! 
I am very unhappy if he is unkind, 



STOLEN WATERS, 207 

And if proofs of affection he gives me, then thoughts 
Of — not what I have lost, but of what I cannot 
Ever gain, and that he is not only not mine, 
But another's instead, rushes on me at times, 
With such force as completely to overwhelm me, 
And my self-control, hardly-won, break down utterly ! 



September 12th, 1865. 

TUESDAY. 

Has more than a month been since I've written here, 
And within that short time — oh, what ages of fear, 
Hope, pain, and suspense I've endured and lived through, 
I thought I'd before been most wretched, 'tis true ! 
But nothing that could in the least be compared 
To this, have I ever experienced. There 
Has day after day been, when all I have felt 
Was a longing desire for " escape from myself, 
And oblivion of time." When from this to that place, 
With a quite tearless eye, but a white, anguished face, 
Have I wandered ; now pausing awhile in my room, 
Drawing down the blind close, and with darkness and gloom 
Keplacing the sunlight that mocked my despair — 
On my bed for awhile, lying silently there. 
Then crouched on the floor with my head in a chair, 
Down stairs in the parlors, a book in my hand. 
But the purport of which I could not understand ; 
And then perhaps playing a half-dozen chords. 
Which had much less of harmony than of discord, 



208 STOLEN WATEE8 

Or leaning far back in a rocker, in vain 

Endeavoring thus with the turbulent pain 

In my heart to keep pace — Oh ! my God alone knows 

How brimful of agony to me were those 

Few weeks, at length ended forever. It seems, 

Looking back on it now, like a long, fearful dream ; 

For a calm has succeeded the storm, or, at least. 

The exhaustion that comes with severe pain's release. 

Two weeks I looked for him almost every day, 
And vainly. A letter he wrote then, to say 
He had met with an accident, somewhat severe. 
On the cars, which some days had confined him, and feared 
'Twould be several more before he should be out 
Permanently ; was going right home ; when about. 
He should try and come over. My hopes this renewed, 
And confidence too. One more week ensued, 
And then I began to expect him again. 
One day I in town went, with Bella, my friend, 
And so at the store called, in order that he 
Midit know I was not home in case he should be 

o 

Intending that day to go over to B. 

But he was not in. The clerk said had been out 

For more than an hour, and 'twas doubtful about 

His again coming in. I supposed, of course, then, 

He had gone to see me. Was in torture again, 

Until I reached home, and found out he had not. 

The next' day was in town again ; therefore, I thought 

To end my suspense I'd make one more attempt. 

Or at least ascertain if he really meant 

To come out or not ; so I called ; he was in. 

But so busy I had but a few words with him. 



STOLEN WATERS. 209 

He said he intended to come out that day, 

But had so much to do he could not get away. 

Had had some reverses in business, and then * 

Was not his own master. I had that a.m. 

A letter from mother received, saying she 

Should be home the next Thursday. I told him, and he 

Said that he would come over that day, if he could ; 

Could not say with positiveness that he should ; 

But would unless business prevented. But I 

Then gave up his coming ; and Thursday passed by 

And I did not see him. 

The next morning brought 
From mother a letter, and stating she thought 
She should visit Boston before she came home ; 
Consequently, should some two weeks longer be gone. 
And one from him also, and saying that he 
Intended that day to get over to B., 
But found it impossible ; as he was quite 
With visitors over-run, and had beside 
His hands full of business, and knew not at times 
Hardly what he was doing. And then wrote, in fine, 
" Don't feel cross with me, though, I have got a head wind 
But hope for fair weather again, by and by ! " 
This rather brought me to my senses ; and I 
Felt ashamed that I had been so cross with him then — 
Thus adding vmto his annoyances, when 
He already was quite over-burdened, although 
I, of course, did not know he was troubled. And so 
I fiilly resolved that another cross word 
I would nevermore send him, whatever occurred. 
When I could not write pleasantly, I would not write. 



210 STOLEN WATERS. 

My mother and Gertie arrived home to-night, 
And the mis'rable past I am trying to seal 
From sight, in my heart's darkest corner ; but feel 
Its effects will not be quite so easy concealed. 



September l^th, 1865. 

TUESDAY. 

To-morrow our place of abode we shall change, 
And I shall write " home " in a house new and strange. 
To-night, for the last time, I sleep in this room. 
And leave it with many regrets. Just as soon 
As 'round a place bright recollections of him 
Have clustered most fondly and sweetly, we've been 
Forced to leave it, and in a new place, to begin 
Our home-life, and therein our home altars rear. 
Better so, perhaps ! Thoughts of him are not, I fear, 
Very good for me ; and, although I have to-day, 
In outward appearance, been lively and gay, 
'Twas only to cover the aching within ; 
Only to drive away sad thoughts of him. 
And my love that's so hopeless and vain. Many times 
Tears unbidden would spring to my eyes, and I find 
Them hard to repress ; but I knew 'twould not do 
To indulge them, so they were forced back, and none knew 
Or dreamed of the pain I was hiding so well. 
Many things occur daily, of him to impel 
Kemembrance j and when I begin to forget 



STOLEN WATERS. 211 

Some light, trifling thing will bring all back, with yet 
Greater force renewing each banished regret. 



Noveimher 2d, 1865. 

THUKSDAY. 

The morning my birth-day again ushers in ! 
And with it, of course, a new year I begin, 
With most earnest hopes that its record may be 
More tranquil than this one has been. Yes ! I see 
That is what I desire — a calm, after the dark, 
Stormy night ; and sweet peace for my sad troubled heart- 
But when I shall have it, our God alone knows. 
But not 'till I cease to do wrong, I suppose, 
And learn to do right. It is so hard to feel. 
At all times, that " all's for the best ! " hard to kneel 
And kiss with submission the hand that would smite. 
The last year passed swiftly away. If I might, 
I would not recall it ; some parts have been quite 
Too unhappy. I have not recovered, as yet, 
From the anguish — or rather its blighting effect — 
I endured in those drear August days. And must say, 
I could fancy myself ten years older to-day 
Than I was at that time. I look back, too, and feel 
With surprise, what 'twere vain to attempt to conceal, 
How much deeper, more tender my love is for him 
Than 'twas three months ago. And yet, I %vithin 
Tliese pages still hope, ere a year from to-night. 
Of the end of this unhappy passion to write. 



212 STOLEN WATERS. 

Decemher 31s^, 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I've written " eighteen sixty-five," I suppose, 
For the last time this year. And I write at its close 
One more anniversary to commemorate, 
The dearest, and sweetest of all ! When, elate 
With the joy of his presence, I had not a thought 
But that he was with me. And how fully fraught 
Were the moments with gladness ! Yet I did not dream 
That I loved him ! How strange that I coidd not have seen 
What it meant — such infatuation ! That day 
Was, without exception, I think I may say, 
The happiest one of my life ; one which had 
No bitter en wreathed with the sweet of its glad 
Happy moments — just two years ago ! 

It has been 
More than four months since I have had one glimpse of him 
I wrote him on his birth-day, some two months ago, 
And once since — on the last anniversary, though. 
Of our correspondence's commencement. To these 
No reply I received, or expected — though pleased 
I of course should have been to have had one. To-night, 
In remembrance of two years ago, I shall write. 

For two or three weeks I have quite ceased to grieve, 
And have not been so cheerful for months. But last eve, 
After I had retired, the old billows once more 
Surged over my heart, breaking down, as of yore, 
All the barriers my hardly-won self-control 
Had attempted to rear, again flooding my soul 



STOLEN WATERS. 213 

With the bitter and turbulent waters. At times 

It is 80 hard to feel he can never be mine, 

Bat is always another's ! The Colonel, my dear, 

Kind friend, does a great deal my sad heart to cheer ; 

And his letters, so frequent and loving, to me 

Of inestimable value have long come to be. 



tTanuary Athy 1866. 

THURSDAY. 

This day should be marked as a " red-letter day ! " 
It has been, oh, so happy, and yet, in some ways, 
So miserable also ! The bitter and sweet 
In my cup invariably meet and compete. 
The carrier brought me a letter this morn. 
From my love ! And 'twas not short and cold, but more 

warm 
And pleasing than any before I have had. 
"While its contents perusing, tears, happy and glad, 
Welled up to my eyes, and, unheeded, brimmed o'er. 
I glanced with haste through it, then turned, and once more 
With loving delight read each word. On my mind 
Slowly dawning a consciousness for the first time, 
The thought that it was barely possible he. 
My love and my darling, might also love me. 
I scarcely can credit it ; dare not believe 
That it can be true. 

He wrote he had received 
Mine the previous day, and, intended to write 
At once ; but was called ofi* before he had quite 



214: STOLEN WATERS. 

Got started, and so was obliged to forego 

Until that time. He blamed himself much — said also— 

That he'd not before written in answer to mine ; 

Had honestly meant to, but from time to time 

Had deferred it, till he was ashamed to, and then 

Was fearful that it would not reach me. Again 

And again he most kindly assured me I'd not 

Been forgotten, I was not to think it ; had thought 

Of me very often ; and that he would like 

Very much to see me ; also said if I'd write, 

And at the L. make an appointment, and soon, 

But not 'till a late hour of some afternoon, 

He'd keep it, if possible, /^must not be 

Disappointed, although, if he should not ; as he 

Was upon circumstances dependent. 

I've been 
Expecting to go East this winter — within 
A few weeks from now very likely shall go. 
And in my last letter, of course told him so ; 
So when I am going he wishes to know, 
And where. And he says that he certainly must 
See me ere I shall leave. And his wishes, I trust, 
And mine also, may gratified be ! And then he 
In closing writes : 

" Do not think hardly of me, 
Or judge me unkindly. I'm not what I seem 
To be, in many ways, and would say many things 
That I dare not, and possibly ought not." 

I am 
So glad, now, I have not been cross ! But how can 
I help thinking he loves me ? If I only knew 
That he did — though 'twould be " stolen waters," 'tis true- 



STOLEN WATERS. 215 

I could then separation or silence endure — 
Anything^ if I could of his love but be sure ! 
Thus the New Year again brings me happiness pure. 



tTanuary 18^A, 1866. 

THURSDAY. 

Is it possible that in my journal this eve 
I write for the last time in Brooklyn ? And leave 
To-morrow the place endeared to me by so 
Many sweet recollections ? And although I know 
That it is the truth, I cannot bring my mind 
To realize it as a fact. 

For some time 
I've written so seldom and briefly, I find 
I neglected to state that some ten months ago 
My brother to Boston removed, and also 
That father has been there some months, and intends 
To have us all go in the spring. Of course, then, 
I shall not return. And my last moments here 
Are shadowed by a disappointment severe. 
I made an appointment not quite two weeks since. 
And which he failed to keep. But yet, being convinced 
That he was not in fault, I did not feel cross, 
Although disappointed, as he doubtless was. 
I am going away sooner than I have been 
Intending to do ; consequently, wrote him 
To that effect ; also appointing again 
For Tuesday an interview ; but it rained then, 



216 STOLEN WATERS. 

And jTdid not go. Yesterday I went in 

And stopped at the store. On inquiring for him, 

To my consternation as well as surprise, 

That he was at home, sick in bed, was apprised. 

Thus again were my dearest hopes blighted ; and I . 

To Brooklyn and home forced to murmur good-by. 

With no farewell word from my love, whom I've not 

For five weary months once beheld. Oh ! the thought 

Almost breaks my heart ! It is cruel, I'm sure, 

And bitterly, bitterly hard to endure. 

To my brother a letter I'd written that day, 

Intending to mail it that evening, to say 

I should be there to-morrow. I stood a long time 

At the office, with it in my hand, half inclined 

Not to send it at all, but to write them, instead. 

That I should not come on. Looking forward with dread 

To an absence from home while my darling was ill. 

With no hopes of tidings of him, as, until 

I should know he was well, I would not dare to write ; 

And he knew not where to address. Well I might 

Hesitate ! But the true reason I could not state, 

And I had no other excuse. 'Twas too late, 

I decided at length, to turn back ; so I sent 

My letter, and then, with an aching heart, went 

Up town, and the night with my friend Annie spent. 

She had visitors, and the whole eve was to me 

One long torture ! 

And now, a sad farewell to B ! 



STOLEN WATERS, 21T 



March 3l5«, 1866. 

SATURDAY. 

The first month of spring ! and my record again 
Is in Brooklyn, and home ! I imagined that when 
I once more was here I should quite happy be; 
But there is so much of him to remind me, 
That it keeps me sad constantly. Then I have not 
Been well, either, since my return, and no doubt 
That my spirits helped some to depress. Father thought 
When I left, it was doubtful extremely about 
Our moving to Boston this spring. Gertie, too. 
Was quite ill, and they were " so lonely," I knew 
That I ought to go home, and was glad so to do, 
Although every effort to render my stay 
In B. pleasant was made ; and indeed, I must say 
Was unhappy much less than I feared I should be ; 
And Fannie, my sister, returned home with me. 

Of course, of or from vaj friend naught I had heard, 
And was anxious, exceedingly, too, for some word. 
So when I was home a few days, I went in. 
And called at his place for some tidings of him. 
Found he had been ill all the time I was gone ; 
But was better then, and would be out before long. 
About a week later was in town once more, 
And having occasion to call at the store, 
To purchase a book, casually inquired 
If he was within, with no thought the desire 
10 



218 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of my heart would be granted fulfilment. "Was glad 

To learn that he'd been down that day, though he had, 

The clerk said, just gone out. Some days after, we met 

In New York, on Broadway ; b>it, to my great regret, 

He had with him a gentleman — Fan was with me — 

So content with mere greeting was I forced to be. 

Nothing but aggravation was that, when not one© 

Had I seen my darling in seven long months. 

Then I wrote ; but receiving no word in reply, 

Went in to see him,. He was cordial ; but I 

Was quite cool at first, 'till I found he had not 

Been able for months to read, write, or do aught 

Of the kind. His physician forbade it, and feared 

That another attack, if as long and severe 

As the last, would entirely deprive him of sight. 

My dearest I May God, in His infinite might. 

And love, such affliction avert. I suppose 

He suffers intensely when prostrate with those 

Prolonged and repeated attacks ; and he says 

He's often delirious, unconscious for days ; 

And when sane, he can neither endure light nor sound!, 

And days of convalescence roll tardily 'round. 

'Tis a nervous affection, and is the same thing 

That confined him so long in the wearisome spring 

Of two years ago ; but his health otherwise 

Is robust ; and unmarred are his beautiful eyes, 

Though his sight is impaired. 

He said he wrote me 
Last week, just as well as he could, although he 
Was fearful that I could not read it, and thought 
It was doubtful if he could himself. He forgot 



STOLEN WATERS. 219 

My address, and so it to the post-office sent ; 
And I called there to get it as homeward I went. 
'Twas written in pencil, and all sorts of ways, 
And formed, to the usual neatness and grace, 
With which he is wont his nice letters to trace, 
Quite a contrast indeed. 

He told me that one 
Of my letters was sent to the house ; it had come 
To the store, at the time he was absent — at home. 

Mrs. thought that it " looked like a lady's fine hand." 

'Twas quite likely a bill, he made her understand. 
He does not come in town until late, he told me. 
And leaves the store early. How nice it must be 
To have him at home so much ! though perhaps she 
Does not care about it as I should. But this 
I must not dwell upon, a topic that is 
Forbidden to me. 

I was quite calm that day 
In my interview with him, and have been, I must say, 
Ever since. Can it be I am loving him less ? 
Oh, would it were so ! dare not think it, tho', lest 
I'm asjain overwhelmed before I am aware 
With its might and intenseness, its bitter despair. 



April 27th, 1866. 

FRIDAY. 

I saw my dear friend about two weeks ago. 
When was made at the L. an appointment, although 



220 STOLEN WATERS. 

He fadid if I came in he'd like me to call 

At the store on my way. But I do not at all 

Like to go there, and told him so also, but he 

Insisting upon it, I could but agree. 

The day previous to that we appointed, a note 

From him I received, and in which he then wrote 

He might be away the next day, but if not 

He would at the store be, about three o'clock. 

Hesitating awhile about going, at last 

I decided I would ; it was just quarter past 

When I entered his place ; on inquiring for him 

Was informed he had stepped out, but soon would be in. 

Supposing of course that such word he had left, 

I waited and waited, until, quite bereft 

Of patience, T paper inquired for, and wrote 

With haste a few lines, of course leaving the note. 

I was rather surprised at how coolly, though, I 

Took the matter; did not, as in days now gone by, 

Feel at all cross with him, neither was I so much 

Disappointed as often I am under such 

Circumstances. 1 feel quite encouraged ! Before 

I have thought I was not quite so much as of yore 

In captivity to him, but one interview. 

Or a letter from him, has dispelled, it is true. 

All my fancied indifference ; but it has stood 

Now both tests. I was vexed with myself, that I should 

Have waited. I never before have done so. 

Nor should I then, had I not reason to know, 

Or think, that he soon would be in. A few days 

Thereafter, a note I received, when he says 

He went in that day purposely to see me. 

Waiting there at the store 'till twelve minutes past three, 



STOLEN WATER8. 221 

And tlien returned home again, as he'd some men 
At work on his place, and his presence with them 
Was required. He would see me this week. 

In reply, 
I wrote that I thought it was doubtful if I 
Would be able to come in this week ; if I could, 
That I'd let him know, but, that I certainly should 
I^ot call at the store. Near the close I wrote, though, 
If he made an appointment, I thought I might go, 
And to do as he liked. But it's now Friday eve, 
And he has not ; indeed, though, I hardly believed 
That he would. But I think the time will come when he 
Will make an appointment, and anxious, too, be 
That I should fulfil it. And I'll wait and see. 



April 28thy 1866. 

SATURDAY. 

I dreamed all the night of my friend, and to-day 
The carrier brought me a letter, to say 
He would be at the L. about five this P.M. 
So he's made an appointment ! That's something that when 
I wrote here last night that he should do sometime 
I dreamed not would happen so soon. To my mind 
That was proof he was wishing to see me, as he 
Must have seen by my note 'twas a matter to me 
Of indifference. So I proceeded to make 
My toilet with haste, fearing I should be late. 



222 STOLEN WATEB8. 

But I reached the L. first. He came soon, and we spent 
A happy hour there ; then we parted, and went 
Each our separate way — he desiring to see 
Me again very soon, and I happy that he 
Should have and express such a wish. 

He told me 
He sang at the " old church " last Sabbath, and should 
To-morrow as well ; 1 shall go up. It would 
Seem indeed like old times to see him in the choir. 
I go at his wish, and my own strong desire ! 
I asked if he sat in the *' corner " ; said, " yes. 
And it was nice to be there ! " Did thoughts of B. S. 
And the sweet olden time make it nicer ? I guess 
That did not from the charm very largely detract. 
We did have, as usual, a most pleasant chat ! 
I allowed him to hold my hand — gloved — in his own 
For quite a long time. 

Ah, my heart ! where has flown 
Thy boasted indifierent coolness? The last^ 
Test was fatal, I fear. Since we parted, JVe passed 
Some moments most wretched ; but, weary to-night, 
I may feel quite different in morning's clear light. 



Maij 1st, 1866. 



TUESDAY. 



Have been very unhappy for some few days past, 
And not quite well either. On Sabbath morn last, 



STOLEN WATERS. 223 

I went up to church. I was early, but he 

Vv'as there before I was, and given to me 

Were liis first glance and smile, when he came out to sing ; 

But there by his side was a woman I've seen 

But too often already, and that I would fain 

As long as I live behold never again — 

Mrs. D., the soprano, I always disliked. 

We had spoken of her on the previous night, 

When we met at the L., and he said he had not 

Even seen her since she left the choir. If I'd thought 

That she would have been there, I'd not gone one step. 

She v/as, though, and he must needs sit back, instead 

Of his place in the " corner. " It made me, indeed. 

Most provoked and unhappy ; though he paid no heed 

To her, and did not stop to sjieak. But my eyes 

With bitter tears filled many times ; so surprised 

And so disappointed was I ! I had gone 

Not far from the church when he passed me, his arm. 

In that of the bass-singer. Marked pains he took 

To speak as he passed me. How handsome he looked ! 

Farther down, Mrs. D., sweeping by me, joined them 

As they turned down Broadway, walking next him, though 

then 
He was on the outside. That, indeed, was the last. 
Bitter drop in my full cup of wormwood. They passed 
From my sight, and I entered a car, homeward bound, 
Sad and wretched indeed. But that day has torn down 
Every barrier of coldness, indifference, that 
I had fancied was raised. Alas ! 'twas, in fact, 
Only fancy, and I am as wholly his own 
To-day as I ever was — his, his alone ! 



224 STOLEN WATERS. 

This morning, from Colonel AUair, I received 
Just the nicest epistle he has, I believe. 
Ever written to me ; and had no slight effect 
In raising my spirits, and helping to check 
The sadness then weighing me down. I know not 
Hardly what I should now do without him ; bright spots 
Are his notes in my weary life. In all respects 
How unlike to my other JTohn is he, and yet 



June \st^ 1866. 



FRIDAY. 



I went up to church a few Sabbaths ago. 
My friend did not sing, nor did Mrs. D. So 
There was naught to disturb my devotions. Relieved 
I felt, I must own ! Some days since, I received 
A letter from him, and a nice one. He writes. 
That he came on from Boston the previous night. 
Had taken a cold most severe, and was then 
Going home for a steaming. He told me that when 
He saw me up town at church was the last time 
That he sang ; he went down for his car, and on mine 
Saw me as we passed each the other ; but I 
Was not looking that way. And did he, by the by, 
Surmise how I felt, and so told me to set 
At rest all my doubts, and show me he was yet 
My love and my darling ? While with Mrs. D., 
I imagined he was, he was thinking of me, 



8T0LEN WATERS. 225 

And watching to see me as I should pa^s by. 
Oh ! how many times I've been conscious that I 
Have done him indeed " gross injustice ! " 

He wrote 
He should soon find occasion to see me, he hoped, 
That we might have a confab together. I sent 
Him a note, telling him that on Wednesday ma meant 
To be absent, and asking if he would come out. 
But she did not go, as it rained hard about 
All the morning, and neither did he come. That day, 
However, he wrote me a letter to say 
That he wanted to see me, and thought that he might 
Appoint Friday, about four p.m. ; but that night 
I had an engagement, and to that effect 
I wrote him, of course ; but with after regret 
That I had not kept his appointment. To-day 
I fulfilled my engagement ; the hours passed away 
Very pleasantly, though I of course at the time 
Could but think that I might been with " Antony mine," 
If I had not been there. 

He's done bravely, of late, 
Not only one, but two appointments to make. 
I wonder if there's a day passes but he 
Sends many a tender thought over to me ; 
And if musings of me are both pleasant and sweet, 
And give to him happiness lasting and deep. 
I never shall know more than now, I suppose ; 
He is so reserved, he will never disclose 
Them to me, or reveal me the depths of his heart ; 
I only can judge by a passing remark. 
An occasional word. If unable to read. 
He must of co\irse think some, and can he, indeed, 
10* 



226 STOLEN WATERS, 

Help thinking of one much and often, who so 

Devotedly loves him ? He must care, I know, 

A little for me and my letters, or he 

Would not cling to them so, and refuse utterly 

To give them up ever. I said the last time 

That I saw him, that he^d better give me back mine, 

Lest something should happen to him. He refused 

To do so, and said they were safe. And no use 

To urge the thing farther, I saw it would be. 

He don't like to own how much he cares for me. 

" Oh could my fond ideas reality prove. 

And one blissful moment give me all his love, 

I would for that moment my life freely give. 

And when he ceased to love, I no longer would live." 



June 6 thy 1866. 



WEDNESDAY. 



I hardly know when I so happy have been, 
And so fully realized it, as within 
The brief hours of this swift-flitting day. 

You must know, 
My dear Journal, that some five or six weeks ago. 
My friend spoke of a series of " Gotham's wise men," 
Which is now being published ; and told me that when 
JTis picture was out — which it would be then soon — 
lie would send it to me. And so, when this noon 
The carrier brought me a paper, addressed 
In the well-known handwriting of him I love best, 



STOLEN WATERS. 227 

I supposed it was that ; neither was I, indeed, 

Disappointed ; but, opening it with all speed, 

I found an engraving so perfect, it seemed 

Almost as if he was before me. Ma deemed 

It not at all like him ; but she has not seen 

Him in two years or over, and doubtless forgot 

How he looked. And that he too has changed, it cannot 

Be denied. I have marked it in him, and it is 

More evident still in his picture. There is 

On his face an expression entirely unlike 

What it wore but three short years ago ; then 'twas bright, 

Smiling, happy, and careless ; but now there are lines, 

And he looks sad and anxious. I cannot divine 

The cause — perhaps business cares, illness, a mind 

Or a heart that is troubled. Whatever it be, 

He's the dearest of all earthly objects to me. 

** I ne'er wake at morn, but his name ever bounds 

To my heart, the first hope of the day. Ne'er kneel down. 

At evening, but it in my prayers, whether in 

Thought or speech, mingles too. If in this I have sinned, 

God forgive me ! " for I have my punishment had, 

In the " Consciousness of degradation, the sad 

Despair which a woman o'erwhelms, when she dares 

Unwooeil, unrequited to love ! " Yet how fair 

And precious to me is my love ! All the day 

I have trembled with my intense happiness. Yea, 

My thoughts constantly turned to the fact that at last 

I have his dear picture ; at each thought there passed 

Through my pulses a thrill of exquisite delight. 

Notwithstanding this, I'm feeling sad, though, to-night, 

To think this poor semblance of him, of the dear, 

Living, loving original's all that I e'er 



228 STOLEN WATEB8. 

Can hope for possession of ! Naught but a bit 

Of flimsy, insensible paper. Those lips 

Can yield no response to my tender caress ; 

Those eyes cannot change from their sad earnestness, 

Or give me e'en one glance of love. And with this 

I ^nust be content ! Oh, my God ! but it is 

Bitter, hitter, this burden I ever must bear, 

Of a hopeless and wasted afiection. Oh, there 

Are times when it seems it must ]uW. me, this weight 

At my heart which I'm forced constant effort to make 

To keep back, and crush down, lest some cold, careless eye 

Should sometime read the tale I so zealously try 

To conceal. I'm yet young ; must I go all through life 

With the curse of unsatisfied longings at strife 

In my heart, blighted hopes, and affection unsought, 

Unreturned ? O ! God knows that against it I've fought 

And struggled in vain ! My love, gliding along 

So smoothly, with naught to disturb the deep, strong 

Serenity of his grand nature, I'm sure 

Can't imagine what 7^ daily have to endure. 

His picture is lying before me ! Each fine 
Well-cut feature's indelibly stamped on my mind. 
And impressed on my heart in most deep burning lines. 
The smooth brow, and the eyes, so sweet, tender, and kind ; 
The full lips whose soft touch I can never forget ; 
E'en the poise of the head, the hair's careless and yet 
Smooth adjustment ; the cut of the beard and mustache 
So familiar — and all that makes up the fine cast 
Of form and of feature — are painted down deep 
In my heart's fairest chamber, in colors soft, sweet, 



STOLEN WATERS, 229 

And eternal. Yet "'tis good to have even this 
Pictured semblance of him ; and I own, to me 'tis 
Indeed priceless. While looking at it, I can ne'er 
Forget that those eyes have looked love ; that those dear 
Lips have, with a touch that no others can e'er 
Kesemble, met mine in love's pure, sweet caress ; 
That my cheek has against that smooth forehead been pressed^ 
And my head pillowed on that broad, true, tender breast. 

But midnight approaches ! My book I must close 
On the record of this day, and seek my repose, 
With thanks to the destiny which has, at length, 
The fulfilment of one of my strong desires sent. 



August Istj 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Two months, very nearly, since I've wiitten here ! 
But though I've been silent, it's not. Journal dear, 
Been because I've had nothing worth writing. Instead, 
The past weeks have been ones of strong and varied 
Emotions. 

I've heard people say they could not 
Keep a journal, because they would never, they thought, 
Have aught worth the writing ; their lives were so tame 
And quite uneventful. I can't say the same ! 
If I should write all the events strongly marked 
Which occur in my life, in fact even a part, 
'Twould fill volumes. I'm conscious my journal is quite 
Incomplete ; is recording alone, of my life, 



230 STOLEN WATERS. 

That part whicli is inner and hidden — that none 

But myself ever sees ; that it, too, has become 

An escape- valve for long-pent emotion alone. 

Were people to read it, to me quite unknown, 

I fear they would think me a person of one 

Idea — despondent and gloomy. But though 

I have lost the extravagant spirits, whose flow 

At times was so brilliant, but three years ago, 

Yet I often am cheerful, and lively, e'en now 

Though not very gay ever, I will allow. 

But I'm sure, did they know how completely I hide 

The grief which sometimes bursts all barriers, they might 

Their opinion of me somewhat change. 

Love^ which is 
To some but a sentiment, mere transient bliss. 
Tamely felt, tamely lost, or at pleasure transferred, 
To TYie is a life's one " grand passion " — oft heard 
And ]*ead of, but seldom, I think, known or seen. 
But though it pervades with its bitter-sweet sheen 
Every fibre and pulse of my heart, yet it there 
Abides, and is not in my face written, where 
It by each passer-by may be read ; and although 
Within all my thoughts it may be, it has no 
Part or place e'er in my conversation. 

Within 
The interim since my last writing, I've been 
So happy as from my love one or two notes 
To receive, and in one of the latest he wrote 
Mine had just come to hand ; he expected to get 
A " grand scolding " from me, for his recent neglect 
In writing ; he knew he was negligent in 
All his correspondence ; but that he had been 



STOLEN WATERS. 231 

Quite unwell, and away a great deal. At the end 
He writes that he hopes we shall meet soon, and then 
Have a long cliat together. And J^ hoped so, too ! 
Then adds — " Don't feel hard toward me, if I do 
Not write you so often, or much as you like ! " 
He need foar no " scolding " from me, I replied. 
I gave him my last more than one year ago. 

I was surprised, somewhat, a month since, or so, 
At receiving a letter from one with whom I 
Once flirted a little, and who, by the by, 
At the time — about four years ago — sent to me 
Some notes that were — well! very warm^ certainly! 
I then liked him much ; but had not seen or heard 
From him, until then, since we parted, one word. 
The acquaintance was closed amicably at the time. 
By mutual consent. I was quite pleased to find 
I was not forgotten ; glad also to hear 
From him once again after so many years. 
The old correspondence he wished to renew ; 
To this I objected, acceding unto 
His desire the acquaintance might still continue. 
Between us a few letters passed, and he came 
To see me, of course. And he seemed just the same 
As in the old time. Indeed ! J could not see 
As he'd changed in the least ; but he told me that he 
Never saw such a change as there had been in me, 
And my letters, as well — that, in fact, 'twas more marked 
In those than it was in myself. Not but what 
They were fine, and as finished as ever, he thought, 
But seemed so much colder, more formal, and not 



232 STOLEN WATERS. 

So vivacious and gay. I asked did he think so, 

And he said, " I think nothing about it. I know ! " 

How shocked I one evening felt at the receipt 

Of one of his notes. " My own dear Bitter-Sweet !" 

Was how it commenced ; and I cannot describe 

The feeling which passed o'er me, as I descried 

Those words at the head of a letter from him. 

The note from my hand dropped, as if it had been 

A live coal of fire. When I saw him I asked 

How he came to write that ; and he said in times past 

I signed one of mine thus (but that was before 

The first to my love), and he thought to once more 

Awake old emotions by using it now. 

I replied somewhat bitterly, I must allow, 

That it called up emotions entirely unlike 

What he'd anticipated. And he did not write 

Another addressed in that way. I had liked 

Him always, as I said before ; and awhile — 

Shall I own it ? — attempted myself to beguile 

With dreams of the possible chance of my heart 

Being " caught in rebound," and transferring a part 

Of my wasted afiections to him. He came, too, 

Jiist at the right time ; when I was, it is true, 

With the old love disgusted and weary, its place 

Supplying, indeed, better, for a brief space. 

Than I had deemed possible. But the dream soon 

Was dispelled ; for the old intimacy resumed 

Showed me, also, that I had changed ; how much he 

To my love was inferior, proving to me 

How impossible 'twas he should e'er satisfy 

The cravings of heart, or of mind, or supply 



STOLEN WATERS. 233 

The place by ray darling left vacant, and brought 

Me back to the old sweet allegiance. I thought 

That mere strangers 'twas best we should be, as before, 

And took measures accordingly. Yet, I was more 

Disappointed than I can express, to again 

Find my hopes for a new state of things blighted. Then 

With that came despondency, even more deep 

Than usual. Yesterday, wretched indeed 

"Was I ; and I felt like excluding myself 

From society wholly, and breaking, as well, 

All my correspondence — in future within 

Myself live entirely ; to-day to begin 

The new life. But I slept o'er it, and, as the mom 

In roseate splendor from darkness is born. 

So to yesterday's night so profound, gloom so deep, 

Succeeds to-day's glorious sunshine. 

To keep 
This P.M. with my love, an appointment, went in. 
I was late, altho' he was still later. I'd been 
There some time, and was j ust about leaving, when he 
At length came in. His partner was out, he told me, 
And he waited for him 'till six nearly, and then 
Left at once. We stayed there for awhile, and then went 
For a walk.- By the way, he to-day spoke again 
About seeing me in the car that day when 
1 was coming from church, when he sang the last time ; 
And ,said his surprise was not much less than mine 
At Mrs. D. singinof that morninsc. He bade 
Me farewell somewhat ha'stily, as his car had 
Already passed by ; bending low o'er my hand. 
With a grace all his own, and a tenderness grand 



234 STOLEN WATERS. 

And simple as well, he pressed it in both 

Of his, with a lingering warmth, as if loath 

To release it, then said he'd soon see me again, 

And was gone. But there was such a difference when 

He was with me to-day, in his manner, from what 

There was ever before — an air which I cannot 

Describe, but that I perceived plainly. A free 

Familiar regard in his bearing to me, 

Entirely unusual ; and never did I, 

His friendship appreciate more. He's seen my 

Worst qualities, surely, and yet is " still true," 

Notwithstanding, too, all I have done or can do. 



August 17thj 1866. 

FRIDAY. 

I did not, I think, say, when writing here last, 
There'd a much longer season than usual elapsed 
Since from Colonel AUair I'd a letter received. 
But though thinking it strange, his not writing, believe 
There was a good reason, and that his delay 
Was compulsory. Two weeks ago yesterday. 
The wished-for epistle arrived. I was much 
Pleased, indeed, upon opening it, to find such 
A long letter, and thought that its kindly contents 
Its late coming would amply compensate. Intent 
On this thought, I glanced first at the close, then again 
To the head, and, all being as usual, I then 



STOLEN WATERS. 235 

Prepared with much pleasure to read it ; but down 

The first page I had not far perused, ere I found 

There was a great change. It was even more fond ^'^^ 

Than his letters in general, yet he goes on 

To say — while expressing unbounded regret 

That it should be so, that he thinks 'twould be best 

To close our correspondence — the reason expressed 

Being his strong desire for a sweet retrospect, 

And his fears, if continued, between us there might 

Come something to render the mem'ry less bright 

And pleasing than now. I might think this to be 

Inconsistent, perhaps, with what hitherto he 

Had written ; he'd then thought to leave it to fate, 

But now feared to do so ; he knew it would take 

From his life its sweet charm — would be parting, in truth, 

With a piece of his heart. His pen almost refused 

To transcribe the words — much like that in effect. 

Hoped that some time it might be renewed upon yet 

More agreeable terms ; should he e'er visit me, 

He trusted a most welcome guest he should be. 

But if, before then, the time shovild be so long. 

His desire to hear from me sufficiently strong 

To his silence o'ercome, begged permission to write, 

Granting me, too, the same ; said he hoped that he might 

Be allowed to retain still my letters, as they 

Were dear unto him ; I might do the same way 

With his, or aught else that I liked. 

I read on 
To Ihe end of the fond, cruel letter, though long 
Before I had finished tears blinded my eyes ; 
And I'd reached my room, scarcely, ere sobs hard and dry 



236 STOLEN WATERS. 

In volumes broke forth ; neither could I control 

Myself in the least. 'Twas so sudden, the whole 

So quite unexpected ! I ne'er was so grieved 

In my life ! So entirely I'd trusted, believed 

In his truth, never doubting him once. I felt there 

Was for me nothing but disappointment, despair ! 

Loving with supreme ardor all those whom I care 
In the least for, I'm constantly wounded. Oh ! would 
That I were less extreme ; that, like others, I could 
Sometimes keep a medium course. I expect 
Never happiness lasting ; in every respect 
My organization's too sensitive, quite. 
I feel everything too acutely — delight 
And sorrow as well. I am one of those who 
Desire, above all things, affection ; and, too. 
Manifested, not unexpressed love — to whom that 
Is the only thing worth bearing life for, in fact, 
And yet are too proud e'er to make manifest 
Their desire for the love which they wish to possess ; 
Too reticent any endeavor to make 
To win the affection they constantly crave. 
By showing to others the' same. But yet J 
Cannot endure always in silence ; and try 
As I may to keep down all emotion, I must 
Give way to grief sometimes. And having so much 
Disappointment of late, which I'd swallowed and kept 
Out of sight, this last hard, unexpected blow swept 
Aside every atom of my self-control. 
And in my despair, and abandon, the whole 
I would have avowed — misplaced love, wounded pride, 
Slighted friendship, and all, howe'er humbling it might 



STOLEN WATERS. 237 

Be to me. But with my self-comLmand once regained, 
Grief exhausted, accustomed reserve again came, 
And I ci-ushed it all down in my heart, buried deep 
From all human sight, and of sympathy's sweet 
Consolation deprived. But this kept me prostrate 
The whole day, and I did not go down until late ; 
And with eyes then so swollen I scarcely could see. 
Throbbing temples, and sad, aching heart. Up to me 
Ma and Fannie had both been, and anxious to know 
The cause of my grief, but I begged them to go 
And leave me alone. And so, when I that eve 
Went down, I took with me the letter to leave 
With them if they wished. With true delicacy, 
Keither mentioned the subject. 

The colonel wished me 
To write in reply, and I did so. To-day 
I an answer received, and it was, I must say, 
A fine letter indeed ; and he said he had thought 
Many times that our long correspondence could naught 
But a bore be to me. In its closing, the loss 
Would be wholly on his side, and so that it was 
On my account, merely, he wrote as he did. 
At last owning, what I had half suspected. 
The cause was my writing about the renewed 
Intercourse with my old friend (I spoke of to you. 
In my last record here, my dear Journal). Of that 
I wrote him, as I anything else do, in fact. 
Which interests me, never dreaming that it 
Would have such efiect upon him, I admit. 
He begged me to answer, and said he should write 
Again in the interim. So we, to-night. 
Are just as good friends as before. 



238 STOLEN WATERS. 

I'm perplexed 
To discover what fate has in store for me next. 



October Zd, 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

I have from my love received two or three notes, 
In the interval which has occurred since I wrote. 
And one which he sent me I did not receive, 
Much to my regret. He addressed, I believe, 
To the office, and so it was lost. Bat how glad 
I was, when to-day I another one had, 
And such as he never has sent me before. 
My love and forbearance the last year or more 
Have not been in vain; and he loves me to-day, 
And trusts, and respects me much more, I dare say, 
Than if anger and sarcasm I'd not repressed. 
Commenced as in general : " My dear B. S." 
And said that upon the receipt of my last 
He could not but blame himself that there had passed 
Such an interval since he had written to me ; 
But had been away most of the time. And so he 
Feels, it seems, his shortcomings, now I utter no 
Keproaches; but when I found fault with him so. 
He'd make no acknowledgments. I'm indeed glad, 
For my sake, as well as his, too, that I had 
Resolved to write no more cross letters, and my 
Resolution have kept. Farther on he writes — 

«I 
Can but say that it is real pleasure to read 
Your letters : they're so entertaining, indeed. 



STOLEN WATERS. 239 

So loving, and seem to come right from the heart." 

How delisjhted I was at this earnest remark ! 

I have many times felt, that, instead of to him 

Giving pleasure, they must very often have been 

A source of annoyance ; and though they could be — 

Such feelings — but bitterly humbling to me, 

I still sent them on, with faint hopes that I might 

In answer a few lines receive, did he write, 

Indeed, never so coldly and formal. But now 

I have my reward ; for my darling avows 

They do give him pleasure, and I've learned at length 

That he never says what is not fully meant ; 

The confession, beside, half unwillingly seems 

To have come, and which double force gives it. I deem 

That our correspondence, at last, has become 

On a basis established more pleasant and firm 

Than it has been of late. In my last, I a kiss 

Sent to him and to " Bertie " (the baby, that is), 

Telling him to be sure and deliver it. So 

He writes me in answer : 

" The kiss, which you know 
You sent in your letter a few days ago, 
Was duly delivered to Bertie ; but, bless 
His innocent soul, from whence came the caress 
He indeed little knew." 

Since this note I received, 
How many times I've fancied him, just at eve, 
After his return home, clasping close in his arms 
The beautiful child, pressing on his soft, warm. 
Baby lij^s, a fond kiss from lips none the less sweet, 
With thoughts of the love for him, boundless and deep, 



240 STOLEN WATERS, 

Which had sent the caress to the unconscious boy — 

The love for him, which would rejoice in his joy, 

And grieve at his sorrow, and which renders dear 

All the objects of his deep aflfection. When here, 

A few days ago, Lorette asked me if I 

Had never desired that the woman would die, 

Who stands between me and the man that I love. 

But though loving him with a passion above 

And beyond estimation, I thank God I've been 

From that temptation spared ; that it has not within 

My mind for a moment e'en once had a place. 

I love him too well to desire to efface 

From his heart or his home what she is, or had ought 

Unto him and his children to be. I do not 

Like to see them together, or think, I must own, 

Of them in the close intimacy of home — 

The relation existing between them. But those 

Thoughts but make me unhappy, and never dispose 

Me to feel hard or bitter to her or to him. 

Of course, very different, though, it might been. 

If he had not married until I had seen 

And loved him — and harder to bear, too, I ween I 

But I now can but feel that no censure is due 

Anywhere ; but the cruel stroke was, it is true, 

Unavoidable. Closing, he says — 

" Did you know 
That I sang at the old church a few weeks ago. 
For a single day merely ? I'd sent you the word 
Had it not been too late to do so, when I heard 
I was wanted to sing. It did seem like old times ! " 
And so his thoughts sometimes turn to sweet " Auld lang 
syne.!' 



STOLEN WATERS, 241 

How can I help thinking he does care for me ! 

That I am dear to him, in some little degree ! 

His manner was always most tender and kind, 

And perhaps it may be a fault wholly of mine, 

That so brief, cold, reserved, his notes ever have been ; 

I've been cross and unreasonable often with him. 

And, dear as he is, from him T could not bear 

What he's taken from me. But in utter despair, 

So wretched, and chafing so under my bonds, 

I sent letters sarcastic and bitter, when fond 

And gentle ones would have been better. But past 

Are those days, forever, I trust. 

In the last 
Of the colonel's nice letters, in one place he says — 
*' What a blessed thing 'tis a true friend to possess! 
I do not know what without you I should do ; 
I think sometimes my * guardian angel ' are you, 
If such things can be ; and I know that I owe 
To your influence all that I am." 

And if so, 
If I some slight benefit may to him be, 
I shall not have lived vainly. My life seems to me 
Such a failure, so wasted and weary, in it 
So much disappointment and grief, I admit 
I am thankful if there's even one that can say 
They are better for my having lived. 

Well! to-day 
Our pastor called here and I gave my consent, 
Though not willingly, very, to make an attempt 
At teaching a Sabbath-school class. I may like 
When accustomed to it, but was fearful I might 
11 



242 STOLEN WATERS. 

Find it irksome to feel that I always must go^ 

As I certainly should — if I wished to or no ; 

Nor do I feel competent either ; and so 

I fain would refused ; but he would take from me 

Nothing but a consent. I do like to be free ! 

Don't like to feel ever the meaning of that 

One little word " must.'''^ I suppose that, in fact, 

Is why I have fretted so under the chains 

I have worn for three years — years so brimful of change. 

" From even love's rosy bonds I would be free ! " 

And yet it a glorious thing seems to me, 

To feel one has such capabilities in 

One's nature for loving ; though it may have been 

TJndesired, unrewarded. And is not that, still, 

Love the noblest of all ? Nearly every heart will 

Kespond to another's deep passion, but few 

Will dare to love where there is no hope, and, too, 

Love on whate'er come. Such affection is true I 



October 2Uh, 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Was in town some days since, and called twice at the 
store. 
But he was not in. For the past week or more, 
I have many times felt that I must, must see him, 
And for one fond caress I have really been 
Almost longing ; have no hopes of having it, though. 
As we ne'er meet alone. I try not to feel so. 



STOLEN WATERS. 243 

To think of it even ; but out of my mind 

I can't always drive it. My heai't is, at times, 

So hungry for some of love's sweets ; and I get 

Not much but its bitterness, pain, and regret. 

I oft think of the time when I used to see him 

Every Sabbath, receive in the brief interim 

An occasional visit from him, which gave me 

Such unalloyed pleasure. I wonder if he 

" Would care if his breast was my shelter as then, 

And if he were here, would he kiss me again ! " 

Well, my dear sister Fannie, who came home with me 
From Boston last spring, will return soon, and she 
Insists upon taking me with her. But I 
Am not wishing to go, as pa — who, by the by, 
Returned some months since — seems determined to move 
Out of town in the spring, so I fear this will prove 
Our last winter in B. ; but much as I dislike 
To go, I can't seem to avoid it. Fan quite 
Overrules each objection I offer, and so 
I've at length with reluctance consented to go. 
I suppose 'tis one more phase of destiny ; seems 
To me nothing less. I, of course, cannot dream 
What might occur should I not go. I have done 
With struggling 'gainst fate ; and that 'tis but a turn 
Of her wheel which to Boston this winter sends me, 
I indeed can but think. I've no wish there to be, 
Had no hand in the matter, and bound so I am 
By a tissue of circumstances, that I can 
Do nothing but go. Of it Colonel Allair 
In his last wiites, that I may be going to there 



244 STOLEN' WATERS. 

Meet my " destiny." Truly ! I may, or my death, 
There is but One knows. So I've only to let 
Events take their course and submit with what grace 
I can, to whatever may come, and erase 
From my heart every murmur, as far as I may. 
But yet, when I feel as I have done to-day, 
It seems as if T could not go. I would like, 
Above all things, one day's perfect quiet, and quite 
Out the question in Eannie's home that is. 

A note 
To vaj friend^ telling him I was going, I wrote 
Some days since ; and I made an appointment, also, 
For the eve of to-morrow ; have yet received no 
Reply as I hoped. In the morning may, though. 



November 4:th, 1866. 

SUNDAY. 

'Twould a volume require to write down here to-night 
What I wish to. My time, though, is limited quite, 
And I must condense in a somewhat small space, 
The record of what the past three or four days 
Has occurred. The day after I wrote last, from him 
No letter receiving, I did not go in. 
But Fannie deciding to go home somewhat 
In advance of our former expectancy, thought 
I would write him once more — which I did, saying that 
Tuesday eve was the last I could meet him. In fact. 



I 



STOLEJS' WATERS. 245 

I wrote rather coolly, and felt somewhat vexed 

That he had not answered my last. On the next 

Day but one I received his reply, which was quite 

Satisfactory, and, just as much true delight 

Afforded to me as the last one he sent. 

My other he said was received, and he meant 

To have written the following day ; but he went 

That eve to the theatre, and, coming home. 

Took cold ; had been sick ever since. I might known 

There was cause for delay. I distrust him each time 

That he disappoints me, and I yet always find 

That he is not in fault. I shall learn, by and by, 

To trust him, I hope — learn his truth to descry. 

He wrote he regretted extremely that I 

Should have been disappointed on Thursday, but still, 

It could not be helped, and then adds that he will 

Be there, if he's living and well, Tuesday eve. 

Should expect me to write to him, after I leave, 

He says near the close. His letter was long, 

Tor his; truly kind, and in fact almost fond, 

And gave me a feeling oi perfect content ! 

An unusual delight, and not even yet spent. 

On Tuesday it rained, so I did not go in. 
I knew not but that the appointment by him 
Would be kept. I that day was not well enough, though, 
To have gone, had the weather been pleasant. And so 
I wrote him I should not leave town 'till this week. 
And Thursday, about six p.m., I would meet 
My friend at the L. I intended, that day, 
To leave home in season to stop on the way 



246 STOLEN WATERS. 

At his place ; but being delayed, I did not 

Reach the L. until two minutes past six o'clock ; 

And five minutes later my love was with me. 

I was going up town for the night, and so we 

Did not stay there. A carriage was waiting, which he 

Then placed me within. 'Twas a beautiful night. 

We drove part the distance, and then thought it might 

Be pleasanter still to be walking — so then 

At once put our thought into practice ; and when 

From the carriage he lifted me, close in his arms 

For a moment he held me, and then pressed a warm 

But somewhat hasty kiss on my cheek — the first one 

I have had from his lips for three years. We walked on, 

Going out of our way a short distance to pass 

The " old church," so endeared to us both ; thinking, as 

We in silence leaned o'er the low paling of iron 

Enclosing the well-laid out grounds, of the time 

When " Love's first dream " began. And when turnuig 

away, 
He said 'twas the nicest church, he could but say, 
That he ever was in ; and 'twas so cosey, too. 
In the choir. I said, " Yes ; it was pleasant when you 
Used to sit in the ' corner,' but was not so nice 
When you next Mrs. D.'took your seat! " 

He replies : 
*' Oh, but I in the ' corner ' almost always sat ! " 
Up the avenue walking, I said to him, that 
If he wished on my ring it should not be removed 
While I remained absent. *' V/hat ! over your glove ? " 
He inquired. But I had none on that hand — the one 
He was holding — so said he would take ofi" his own. 



STOLEN WATERS, 247 

And while drawing it off, lie between his dear lips 

Placed my ring, and then slipping it on, with a kiss 

Sealed his wishes for me ; and the rest of the time 

In his warm, ungloved hand with fond clasp he held mine. 

To hear Madame Ristori was going that eve, 

And said it was difficult for him to leave 

That night, as some friends on from Boston were in 

At the store when he left, and would not excuse him, 

But he told them he must go, agreed to meet them 

Between seven and eight at the theatre, then 

Left in haste. And he said he came up to the L. 

When we made the appointment for Tuesdayj as well. 

And thought, though it did rain, that I would be in 

As I left town so soon ; and that I'd accused him 

So often of breakimi; enjicasements, he meant 

To keep that one, if through fire and water he went. 

And he did go through water indeed, for it poured. 

Said {le sang the last Sabbath in church, but the word 

Again did not get until too late to send 

Out to me, but should sing the next Sunday again, 

(That's to-day), and of course I consented to go. 

'Twas not at our church that he sang, he said, though, 

But at an Episcopal on the same street. 

Many times he regretted that his " Bitter-Sweet " 

Was not there when he sang at the old church. 

When we 
Reached Annie's — where I was to stop — he wished me 
To walk on a short distance. Of course I was glad 
To comply, although then barely time he would had 
To keep his engagement with promptness. But that 
Was nothing to me, if he felt satisfied. 
We were on the same street where I used to reside, 



24:8 STOLEN WATERS. 

And stood on a comer quite near my old home 

For some little time ; and it was sweet, I own, 

To stand with my hand clasped in his, and the tone^ 

Of his exquisite voice falling soft on my ear. 

S\«eet the stolen embrace when no person was near, 

The petting so longed for, the perfect content 

Which his mere presence gave me, the pure joy that sent 

Every thought but of happiness out of my heart, 

Though I knew time was flying, and soon we must part. 

He was all the eve so affectionate, kind ; 

He called me " dear " once, and by name many times. 

Though never addressing me by it before. 

It could not have come from his lips now with more 

Ease and natural readiness, if it had been 

For long, a familiar " household word " with him. 

"Very pretty he speaks it, more as a caress 

Than anything else, and it sounds, I confess. 

Very sweet from his lips. 

He has never appeared 
So tender and loving, and never so clear 
And manifest was his attachment. Although 
Always kind, he was then more than usually so. 
More reason to think I am dear to him, he 
Never gave me. Indeed ! I am sure he loves me. 
At least next to her, who in his heart claims 
The first place. And am I contented to reign 
As second within a divided heart ? One 
Who has often declared she would have all, or none, 
Is with this satisfied ? Yes ! far better a part, 
A moiety of his, than another's whole heart ! 

He spoke many times of my writing to him. 
" You'll write me when Boston you shall arrive in,'' 



STOLEN WATERS. 249 

"Was the last thing lie said. It was past eight o'clock 
When again we before my friend's residence stopped. 
Then taking my hands, both of them, in his own, 
Left a kiss of farewell on my lips and was gone. 
I fancy his friends tired of waiting, ere he 
The theatre reached. 

Well ! the evening, to me, 
Was perfect ! My love every want satisfies ; 
For the void in my heart sweet content he supplies, 
Until it overflows with a love so entire. 
So sacred, and pure, passion can but expire. 
So sweet I ignore all the pain gone before. 
While I drank in the joy which his presence affords, 
What wonder I should for a moment forget 
That I " stolen waters " was quaffing ! And yet, 
Is a love pure as mine such a deep, deadly sin. 
And a crime each impassioned expression ? There's been 
Very much to regret, and repent of — lose sight 
Of the wrong, or excuse it, I do not — it might, 
However, be worse j and to One, who, if just. 
Is loving and pitiful also, I'll trust 
The sin and its punishment, knowing that He 
Looks alone on the heart, each temptation can see, 
Whether conquered or yielded to. Once having worn 
Our humanity, been by fierce temptations torn. 
He knows how to succor, to pity, forgive ; 
To His love and compassion the issue I leave. 

This morning was fair, so of course went up town 
To church, as I promised. Was early, and found 
He had not yet arrived ; but the sexton gave me. 
As requested, a seat near the choir ; and when he 
11* 



250 STOLEN WATERS. 

Soon after came in, liis face plainly betrayed 

His pleasure at seeing me. He sang to-clay, 

Divinely, as ever ! liis voice seemed in truth 

The impressive Episcopal service to suit. 

And lost none of its richness and beauty, when in 

The elaborate " Te Deum" heard. I had been 

So proud of him, had we but met ere it came 

To be sin he should love me — had 1 borne his name. 

When service was over, I had not gone far 

Ere he joined me. Together we waited for cars. 

He said the last Sabbath " My Lady " was down. 

But to-day it v/as too late to come, when she found 

He intended to sing — I presume no design 

There was in his failing to tell her in time (?). 

I spoke of his being so late Thursday night, 

Ere he kept his engagement ; he said yes, 'twas quite 

Ten o'clock ere he entered the theatre. When 

He first left the car, about nine, he missed then, 

For the first time, a valuable diamond ring. 

He thought for a moment, then recollecting 

That he drew off his glove where we stood a long time 

Conversing, he took a car back ; failed to find 

What he sought, so he borrowed a lantern near by — 

Turned away unsuccessful again, when his eye 

Was caught by the glitter. Indeed ! he, I think, 

Was most fortunate. It was a beautiful rino-. 

One his wife ordinarily wears. 

So, I ween, 
For the last time for many long months, I have seen 
My love, and my dearest ! I go, though, away. 
Feeling sure of his truth and affection. All day 



STOLEN WATERS. 251 

I liave tliouglit of a poem, expressing indeed 

With perfectness my feelings to him. Thus it reads : 

** What are my thoughts of thee ? 
Ah, most serene and calm ! Amid the din, 
The stir, and tumult of the busy crowd, 
Like birds from far, they softly flutter in, 
And breathe to me thy name, but not aloud. 
I hear some voice with music like thy tone, 
And start to know that I am not alone — 
I look amid them all, if I may trace 
Thy glance, thy smile, thy form's familiar grace — 
And by the sudden flutter of my heart, 
I know, my love, we are not far apart. 

*^ What are my thoughts of thee ? 
All pure and fair, yet passionately sweet. 
Moonlight and starlight whisper still of thee. 
I breathe thy name, and o'er and o'er repeat 
The words thou said'st beneath the whispering tree. 
Again 'neath Winter's moonlight skies we stand, 
I feel in mine the pressure of thy hand — 
And words that touched my soul with sudden thrill 
Are murmured o'er by lingering memories still. 
And though our paths must part, 'tis sweet to know 
Blest thoughts of thee are mine where'er I go — 
Sweeter to know that with no vain regret. 
We shall recall the hour when first we met." 

It does seem so strange that we, after three vears 
Of misunderstandings, heart-burnings, and tears. 
Should stand on the footing we now do ; and that 
Our long correspondence, which has been in fact 



252 STOLZy WATERS. 

Irregnlar, sparring, unpkasant — at length. 
All jarrings at end — ^we, bj mutoal consent, 
"With mutiial j^easme, propose to renew. 
On a baas of ooftifideooe, knovrk^e, and -mr 
Behcet and afi^ction, ibat neftficy cool 
At its fatal begmmng, just three yeaxs ix^ .. 
I hace nrach injustice done bim in tbe past. 
But Fm g^ad I can tmtbfalhr saj, tbat at last 
Mt confidence in bim is perfeet, entiie ! 

I find, looking b^u^k £>r a jear, I aspired 
Ere to-nio^t to be able Ibe end to wiite here 
Of this nnbappT love. But this record, I £ear, 
IjoAsi not mncb like aoi oTereome passion. 

We leave 
On -'z.^ ^.i-ji- ---:- : r ^ ' - — ^^^^--^^^^ eve. 



To —J -. -SO, my Journal, to voo. 



MmrA, 23d, 1867. 



SATCBDAY. 



Qnee more Fm in Brooklyn ! How b^ipy I am 
That^ after a long, five months' aheemfle, I can 
Sit here in my own, cosey, dearhr-loved room. 
My old confidential chats here to resume 
With my Joomal ; once move on its pages to trace 
The swe^ words ^ at hcmie ! " There indeed is no j^aee 



STOLEN WATERS. 253 

So dear to my heart ! I from Boston arrived 
About two A.M. yesterday. 

Well! my life, 
Since I left home last fall, has as usual not been 
Uneventful ; but on the contrary, within 
A few months a great deal has been crowded. But it 
Is so far in the past, I have now, I admit, 
No time, nor, in fact, inclination to write ' 
It in detail, and merely will give here to-night 
A summary brief of a part. 

When I had 
Been in B. a few days only, I was attacked 
With severe fever symptoms, so suddenly that 
'Twas with great difficulty that they were controlled, 
And for a few days was quite ill. On the whole, 
It was almost a wonder that I had escaped 
A long run of fever. 

I wrote the same day 
I arrived, to my friend ; disappointed was I, 
And greatly, that to it I had no reply, 
I waited some two weeks, and then wrote again. 
Still no answer ! A letter to Annie I then 
Dispatched, and enclosed one to him, the desire 
Expressing that she'd take it in and inquire 
For him — thus the state of his health ascertain. 
And at once let me know the result. This was vain 
(I had written to her two or three times before), 
For from neither a word I received. And once more 
I was in despair ! and I cannot express 
How unhappy it made me ; and yet, none the less 
Did I trust him, nor lose for one moment in him 
My confidence ; and I felt sure he'd not been 



254: STOLEN WATERS. 

In fault in tlie matter. When I could repress 

No longer the grief which I can but confess 

Each day but became more unbearable still, 

The suspense and anxiety no force of will 

Could suppress, which was killing me — Fannie would say, 

" Why was I so sad, why not try to be gay ? 

She was sure T had nothing to trouble me ! " She 

Would thought differently had she changed places with me. 

Were her husband away from her, ill, perhaps blind, 

Or sleeping in Death's icy clasp — and a line 

Or a word of, or from him she could not receive. 

She would weep, and imagine she'd reason to grieve. 

I say this deliberately. I believe 

He's no less dear to me than her husband to her. 

I was just as assured he was ill, as if word 

To that effect I had received. 

An event 
Of some moment, six weeks or so after I went 
To Boston, occurred, which I'll briefly state here : 
When just finished shopping, one day, sharp and clear 
A fire alarm struck from the " Old South" church bell, 
And was echoed all over the city, as well. 
A few moments later the engines rushed past, 
A mad crowd in their wake. They were all gone at last. 
And crossing the sidewalk, I signalled a car. 
Then leisurely walked out to meet it. Not far 
Had I gone, ere I heard shouts of " haste ! " and was caught. 
Dragged on to the platform, and thrust quick as thought 
In the car, where a man on the left in his arms 
Clasped me close — then a crash, a few screams of alarm, 
Or of pain, and I, trembling and white, but unharmed. 



STOLEN WATERS. 255 

Was released, and sat down. And then, for the first time, 

I knew what the danger had been, and divined 

What a hairbreadth escape I had suffered. It seems 

That an engine, in all its mad fury — unseen 

And unheard of by me — was directly behind 

The car, which, obeying the signal of mine. 

By stojiping provoked the collision, which then 

Could not be avoided. They told me that when 

They saw me approaching they thought I could not 

Escape certain death. I, unconscious of what 

Was menacing me, must assuredly met 

The fate which then threatened — I shudder e'en yet, 

When I think of it — had it not been for the kind 

And prompt action of those on the car at the time, 

And the interposition direct of Divine 

Omnipotent love and protection. It seemed 

A miracle, almost, that saved me. I deemed 

It indeed nothing less. The pole of the engine 

Was half-way through the car, and the door was crushed in, 

The window-pane shattered, and weak women screamed, 

And attempted to faint, and the crimson blood streamed 

From both cheek and hand of one man near the door ; 

Another one had his coat torn ; several more 

Were injured in person or dress — yet was I, 

More exposed than all others, by danger passed by, 

And I stood there unharmed and untouched. Not a word 

Did I speak, but to answer, when if I was hurt 

They kindly inquired. I almost held my breath 

At the Power which saved me from violent death. 

And I thought that I never would murmur a*:;ain 

At whatever might come ; or despair, feeling then 



256 STOLEN WATERS. 

That there must be something in store for me yet, 
Or I would not been spared ; and, resolving to fret 
No more at Fate's fickleness, wait for the end 
With patience, with trust, and with hope. 

To my friend, 
My dearest, I wrote the last day of the year, 
With hopes that would bring me some tidings. A mere 
Note only, I sent, scarce a page, yet I knew 
'Twas enough to assure him that I was " still true," 
And that if he was well he'd let me know the same. 
In due time, to my joy, a reply to this came. 
It was brief, but he stated he'd written me three 
Directed according to orders. That he 
Had been sick, as a matter of course, but was better. 
That note I was not to consider a letter ; 
Was just leaving town, and had no time to write; 
Would only be gone a few days, then I might 
Expect to hear from him again. But although 
I waited, and hoped, besides writing, also. 
One or two more to him, yet not one other line 
Did I receive from him, in all the long time 
I was absent. And though I wrote Annie, again 
And again, I heard nothing from her. This, too, when 
From Colonel Allair I was hearing each week, 
And from home twice as often as that, not to speak 
Of others more transient ; yet not one was lost. 
And I thought it was hard those I wanted the most 
Should have been just the ones to miscarry. 

There was 
In Maiden a friend of my brother-in-law's. 
Whose acquaintance I made while in B. There was not, 
All during my stay, a week passed by, but what 



STOLEN WATERS. 257 

He was there, and quite often more frequently still. 

I liked him. very much, and had reason to feel 

The attachment was mutual. Indeed, we at once 

Became very good friends ; and the long, weary months 

Of my absence from home his society could 

But render more pleasant, indeed, than they would 

Have otherwise been. And between us one bond 

Of union there was, he knew naught of. I found 

That he'd "loved and lost ; " and though he little thought 

That I was aware of the fact, I could not 

Avoid feeling for him, from the depths of my heart. 

He, knowing the day that I meant to depart, 

Met me at the depot, and bade me farewell 

With regret that was evident. J^ cannot tell 

When again we shall meet — probably not for long — 

But with pleasure I ever shall look back upon 

Our pleasant acquaintance. 

We'd been a short time 
In B. when my sister's health slowly declined, 
And soon after the birth of the " Happy New Year," 
She seemed slipping from earth, while with anguish and 

tears, , 

We knew we could ne'er stay the fluttering soul, 
Felt her feet would be soon threading streets of pure gold, 
Her weary head pillowed on Jesus' true breast. 
And her impatient spirit forever at rest. 
My mother and father v/ere summoned in haste. 
And came on, expecting to see the dear face 
Frozen, white, by the kiss of the conqueror. Death ; 
And indeed, we could fancy his icy cold breath 
Had fanned her pale cheek, so near Ids portals grim 
Did her faltering feet then approach. I had been 



258 STOLEN WATERS. 

Last to give up all hope, and I night and day passed 

By her side, 'till upon the fair brow gathered fast 

The cold dews of death, the pulse flickered and failed, 

The soft loving eye became dim, 'neath the nails 

The purple blood settled ; then my hope was gone ; 

In my heart I then bade her a silent, and long, 

Last farewell, thinking never to see her again, 

'Till the jewel was lost from the casket. But when 

The night v/aned, the grim visitor slunk from our door, 

And fair hope fluttered back to our sad hearts once more. 

What a trying time 'twas to us all ! In despair 

Was her husband — her children grief-stricken — all care 

Devolved upon me, no less troubled, indeed ! 

Truly strength must be given to us as we need. 

Or I could not endured what I did in those days. 

When we gave up the loved one, I promised to stay 

As long as they needed my presence ; although 

The eflfort which it required, God alone knows ! 

But I counted the cost, and still felt it to be 

A duty for me to remain. I could see, 

When, later she told me that I was indeed 

Such a comfort to her when she felt that her feet 

Were fast slipping over the brink, why impelled 

I was to leave Brooklyn, last fall, and, as well, 

One reason why God spared my life weeks before. 

When 'twas in fearful peril. When she, as of yore, 

Was again in our midst, seemed as if we'd had one 

Given back from the grave. 'Till her health had become 

Sufficiently firm to permit a resume 

Of her family's charge, 1 remained, and then soon 

Turned my joyful steps homeward. 



STOLEN WATERS. 259 

Awaiting me there, 
I found a nice letter from Colonel Allair. 
Have to-day been in toAvn, and of course called to try 
And some tidings obtain of my love. Just as I 
Had expected, I found he was ill. 'Twas about 
Three weeks, they informed me, since he had been out ; 
Was no better when last they had heard— yesterday. 
Though this knowledge made me very sad, I must say 
Even that was much better than longer suspense. 
Of late my anxiety's been most intense. 
I knew not, of course, but in all this long time, 
Death had entered his door. Relieved was I to find 
My dear one was living, though 'j^risoned within 
A silent and darkened apartment. For him 
It is very hard thus afflicted to be — 
Hard for him — for all his — doubly painful for me, 
Who must constant suspense and uncertainty feel, 
And cannot be near him to nurse, soothe, or heal. 



April nth, 1867. 

THURSDAY. 

I had been home from Boston not more than a week 
When somewhat surprised was I at the receipt 
Of another nice letter from Colonel Allair — 
Although none was due me ; and, wondering where 
I could be all that time that from me he'd not heard. 
He was anxious extremely, he said, for some word. 
And feared there'd befallen me some accident 
On my way home from B. Not in any event 



260 STOLEN WATERS. 

Expressing one doubt of myself. My dear boy I 
His letter was most kind, and gave me much joy. 
A short time after my return, Annie one day 
Came over to see me, and said, by the way, 
That while I was absent she wrote me three times, 
Yet not once did I hear. 'Tis indeed to my mind 
Very incomprehensible. 

How sad I was 
All day Sabbath ! yet from no particular cause, 
Or rather no new cause ; old griefs, and the old 
And yet ever new wounds ! Not alone the untold 
Despair of my wasted, unwise, hopeless love, 
But my long-broken vows to my Father above, 
Lost hope, and lost happiness. J^ can't convey 
To these pages, how heavy my heart was all day. 
But 'tis gone, and I will not attempt its recall — 
A passing cloud merely, yet, however small. 
Dark and heavy with rain-drops ; but only such as 
Have over my life-sky but too often passed, 
And more and more frequently still, as the swift 
Flitting years onward roll. And to-day the cloud-drifts 
Have been scarcely less dark. All the night I had dreams 
Of my friend — dreams not pleasant. With morning's 

first beams, 
I weeping awoke. I'm so anxious ! It seems 
As though I could not any longer endure 
This racking suspense. No one knows, I am sure, 
Half how wearying 'tis. Were it but allowed me 
To see him, to soothe a few moments, 'twould be 
A blest privilege ; but I have neither the rightt 
Nor the power ; but 'tis very hard to be quite 



STOLEIf WATEE8. 261 

Content always. Oh, why do I love him? And why 

Can I not give him up? When in B., by the by, 

A friend casually said, " Two years is a long time 

To be constant ! " But I, unto this love of mine, 

So hopeless, perhaps unrequited, have been 

Not two, hvit four years, nearly, constant. And in 

My heart, I must own, that the love is to-day 

Warmer, purer, and sweeter, and in every way 

More deep and enduring than ever before. 

There is sweet with the pain, balm is oft sprinkled o'er 

My heart's bitter anguish. I love him with truth, 

And with purity. So there is nothing, forsooth, 

In the love that should shame me ; and only an act 

Accomplished long years ere I knew him, in fact, 

Almost in my babyhood, makes love like mine 

A sin, and the simplest endearment a crime. 

I did wrong, in the first place, I do not deny! 

But most bitterly have I been punished, and I 

Can but feel that the sin has been here expiated. 

And by it the hereafter will not be shaded. 

Over me for a long time the cloud has hung low ; 

Will its sable edge never roll backward, and show 

The bright splendor beneath ? Or are the few sweet 

Brief moments of happiness, exquisite, deep, 

That his presence has always afforded, to be 

The whole compensation intended for me. 

For the anguish and pain I've endured, and must yet ? 

The one brilliant gem in a setting of jet ? 

The one gleam of light in the darkness so long 

Enshrouding me ? " Sorrow and silence are strong, 

And patient endurance is God-like ! " one writes. 

And if that end's accomplished, my heart made God-like, 



262 STOLEN WATER8. 

If by patient endurance of t*his bitter grief 

I am " purified, strengthened, perfected," in brief, 

If through that I gain Heaven, I'll think it, indeed, 

Lightly won, and give thanks for the glorious need. 

A notice in this evening's paper just caught 

My eye, and which proved to be, just as I thought, 

Intended to summon to-morrow a.m. 

Certain lodges of masons to meet, and attend 

The funeral rites of a member. My heart 

Stood still 'till I read it, and found that the hard, 

Cruel dread at my heart-strings was not realized ; 

That others were called to mourn, not me ; and eyes 

And heart filled with gratitude. My mourning could 

But be secret, and kill me it certainly would. 

It seems as if that blow I never could bear ; 

Me from that bitter trial, I pray God to spare. 



May Uh, 1867. 



SATURDAY. 



About two weeks ago, I despatched a brief note 
To my dearest, and after the date, merely wrote 
" B. S. is at home ; when you're well enough, write I 
To the usual address." And I hoped that I might I 
Hear at once ; but a week or more passed by befor 
I received a reply ; then he did not write TDpr^ 
Than a half-dozenJjjifiSy^ Had a few days been out 
He hoped permanently ; but he was about 




STOLEN WATERS. 263 

Broken down. For warm weather was praying, with trust 
That his health would recruit. My poorloyjB ! though it 

must, "~ 

Without doubt — summer's warmth — have the longed-for 

effect, 
And bring his old buoyancy back again, yet 
I fear winter's cold will prostrate him again, 
And undo all the glad summer's work, and as then 
Make him captive to pain. If with him I could be, 
I'd such care of him take ! Why did fate deny me 
What would be such a boon ! Nothing more I'd desire 
Than to watch o'er him, nurse him in sickness — aspire 
To naught better than in all his joy to rejoice. 
Support and give comfort in sorrow. A choice 
It is not mine to make. Were he healthy and strong 
It would not be so hard. And if one of these long 
And repeated attacks should my darling leave blind ! 
How could I endure it ? I've known for some time 
That 'twas possible, probable even ; yet I 
Am not, and ne'er shall be, prepared for it. Why, 
When I think of that, should I forever be teased 
With the memory of " Jane Eyre" and " Rochester " ? He 
Was blind, also, and she was permitted to be 
Light and eyes to him ; yet, when he'd health and strength, 

then 
Circumstances and stern destiny parted them. ' 
But my " Rochester," lie, my darling, my love, 
Does not need me. God grant me from Heaven above 
Strength sufficient the weight of my sorrow to bear I 
It grows very burdensome ; and in despair 
I almost sink beneath it. Will ever there come 
A better time for me ? The colonel, in one 



264 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of his last letters, writes — '^ 'Tis indeed a long, long, 
"Weary night, that not one promise gives of the morn." 
When will dawn for me break ? 

I wrote him in reply 
To his note, saying Saturday afternoon I 
Would be in. For an answer I looked all the' week, 
But 'twas not 'till the day I appointed received. 
I went to the door when the' carrier called, 
And he passed me three letters ; the last one of all 
Was the one long desired. In the folds of my dress 
I slipped it, and though I could scarcely repress 
My expectant impatience the contents to read 
Of the unopened letter, then lying, indeed, 
So near to my heart, yet I forced myself to 
Head both of my other long letters quite through — 
One each from my brother and sister — -and then 
I hastened upstairs to devour the contents 
Of the other. He merely wrote, though, he would be 
At the L. about six o'clock Saturday eve. 
I at once made my toilet, then up town to see 
My friend Annie I went, and returned at the time 
Appointed. But scarcely expected to find- 
My love at the L., as I wrote him in mine 
I should not be in if it rained, and it did 
Nearly all the p.m.; knew his health would forbid 
Of his braving a storm ; and he came not. 

I sent 
Another, and made an appointment again 
For yesterday. And I am able once more 
To record pleasant things, and to write as of yore, 
Of realized anticipations, and bright, 
Sweet hopes all fulfilled. And if, while I shall write 



STOLEN WATERS, 265 

' Of ^yesterday's happiness, there should sometimes 
A word of endearment slip out, from the mine 
Of my love for him, why should I care ? Why repress 
The impulse to utter the deep tenderness 
Thatbroods in, my heart for him, when I well know 
That these pages will be by no eyes but my own 
Seen ever, at least while I live. And when " life's 
Fitful fever" is o'er, and I " sleep," why should I 
Be concerned as to what may be then seen and thought ? 
Those who would for my weakness condemn me, do not 
Know what they in the like circumstances would do ; 
And those, who in any degree have beenTlEhrough 
The temptations and trials besetting me so. 
Will pity me, rather than censure ; will know 
How utterly wretched I often have been. 
And while to the dregs all the bitter drops in 
The full Clip of love I have drained, very few 
Of its sweets I have tasted. That life's to me, too, 
Biit " a harvest of barren regrets," and a blight 
All my sweet hopes of happiness, fleeting as bright. 

My mother ! How she would feel did she know all ! 
'She wonders why I am so S3,d, and why pall 

All my pleasures so soon. And she Tnay some time know, 

Some time solve the riddle that puzzles her so. 

I would not have her now, as I know that it would 

Cause her much pain, and could do no possible good. 

I can't give him up ! want the requisite strength : 
" "1 expect that I may be obliged to, at length, 

By the strong force of circumstances ; and 'till then 

I cling to him ; hoping as my love for him 

Is involuntary, uncontrollable, in 
12 



266 STOLEN WATERS, 

All respects piire and true, that- it may be forgiven 
And not future punishment bring. I have striven, 
God knows, to o'ercome it, and think I have had 
My chastisement all of the time, in the sad, 
Bitter humiliation it caused, the frequent 
Disappointments, the grief which seems ne'er to be spenx. 
The hopeless heart-achings for one who from me 
Is eternally sundered. 

I feared it would be 
Stormy yesterday, also ; as all the forenoon 
Was cloudy, with strong, cold, east winds ; but it soon 
After noon cleared away very pleasant. At four 
I left home, and I then went direct to the store. 
The first one I saw when I opened the door 
Was mj friend, and not far from the entrance. He came 
At once up to me ; when we'd greetings exchanged, 
I asked if to go up it was his intent. 
He replied " Yes ! at six ? " and I gave an assent, 
And hastened away. I had waited for him • 
An hour nearly, and he a half hour too had been 
There, before we discovered each other, through some 
Slight misunderstanding. I stood not far from 
The entrance, and very much vexed I felt, too. 
And thought if he did not come up, when he knew 
That I was in town, and he'd promised to come, 
I'd never forgive him, nor ever make one 
More appointment, when just at that moment my hand 
Was taken, a few words of greeting said, and 
I turned, and my love was beside me. Remained 
There a moment, then went in. Oh ! how he had changed / 
And how my heart ached as I saw in his face 
The ravages which two months' illness had traced. 



STOLEN WATERS. 267 

He had grown an old liian since last autumn, and yet 
To my heart he is dearer -than ever. 

He said 
He wrote me thrice after the note I received, 
None of which came to hand — and said last, he believed 
He sent me a paper. It is strange, indeed ! 
At first v/e of mere commonplaces conversed ; 
But after a time v/e dropped into the first 
Serious conversation that ever has passed 
Between us. 1 wrote him, I think in my last, 
With my whole force of will I was trying to gain 
The courage to give him up wholly ; obtain 
The requisite strength to say, never again 
I'd a meeting appoint, no more letters write him; 
When we met we would talk of a parting ; and in 
The interim hoped he would think of it. Yet, 
When first I referred to it, laughiugly met 
All I said with evasion, and when I reproved. 
Retorted by saying, " But you're smiling, too ! " 
But his playfulness he at length dropped, and became 
As serious as I could desire. With his cane 
Clasped in one hand, his other one holding his hat, 
Which he from the table beside which we sat 
Had taken a moment before, and his head 
Bent slightly, he listened to all that I said, 
Attentively, gravely, and answering, too, 
As occasion demanded. 

I briefly reviewed 
Our long, desultory acquaintance, and when 
I spoke of the grief lie had caiised me, he then 
Asked what he had done. I referred, in reply, 
To his frequent neglect of my letters, his slight 



268 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of my wishes, his faihire engagements to keep, 
And the like. But he answered, I yet did not speak 
Of what he had done, only what he had not. 
That he would prefer condemnation, he thought, 
For om.issive, rather than commissive sin. 
I asked if he meant to imply that he'd in 
Disregarding my wishes sinned less than he might 
In fulfilling them ; and, that if so, he was right, 
I had not a doubt. That was not, he replied, 
What he meant ; but for what he'd omitted to do, 
He would rather be censured, when censure was due, 
Than condemned for a wrong he had done. 

As I knew 
He had long been aware of my love, reckless, too. 
As a woman is ever, when once she's betrayed 
An aflfection she should have kept hidden away, 
I told him quite plainly how dear he had been. 
How much more than all others I still cared for him. 
And added, I did not expect him to think 
Any more of me, seeing how little I shrink 
From telling him so — but he lifted his head, 
And, " JVo less, certainly ! " with much earnestness said. 
Of course that was most gratifying to me. 
And more so, as he the truth proved it to be. 
I spoke of his letters, how cold and how brief 
They had been, with exception of those I received 
Just before I left home, adding they were, in fact, 
Satisfactive entirely. With quick, eager act. 
Asked if that was the truth ; said he was glad of that. 
Very earnestly. And, then I told him, however 
We'd quarrelled in our correspondence, there never 



STOLEN WATERS. 269 

Had been in our interviews aught to regi'et ; 
Those had been very pleasant in every respect. 
With a smile most expressive, he looked up at that, 
And my hand — he had taken in his 'neath his hat — 
Warmly pressed, but said naught. Of how little to him, 
And how much to me our acquaintance had been 
I then spoke. And he answered in such an odd way, 
As if all he wished to he did not dare say. 
Or his strong feelings made it an effort to speak. 
That to him it had been very pleasant indeed. 
I spoke of how humbling the very fact was. 
Of my caring for him, and th-e consequent loss 
Of my own self-respect. But he " could not see why," 
He answered ; and I in surprise made reply, 
*' Well, first, you are married ! " He raised his bowed head. 
With a most meaning smile interrupting me, said, 
" I know that, very well ! " I continued, that it 
Was, of course, very wrong for me, he must admit, 
To care more for him than for others, who were 
Mere passing acquaintances ; and, not a word 
To speak or to write to him, had I a right, 
Except what his wife with propriety might 
Either hear or perceive ; and he surely must see 
How deeply humiliating it must be 
To one proud as I, to be forced to confess 
I had lavishly wasted the deep tenderness 
Of the first, only love of my heart upon one 
Who cared nothing for me. While I spoke there had come 
A slight flush to his cheek, though until I had done 
Kever lifted his eyes. Looking up then, he asked 
How I knew that. " Knew what ? " I inquired, and there 
passed 



270 STOLEN WATERS. 

A slight tinge of embarrassment into his tone, 

As he answered — his hand pressing warmly my own — 

" How know you that I do not care more for you 

Than I do for all other fair women ? " I knew 

I'd no reason to think that he did, I replied. 

He answered, of course he might say that he liked, 

Or loved me, indeed ! but, it never would do 

To say all he might, and he had no right to. 

Well ! neither had I, I replied, but I did. 

But he said there was naught to force me to restrict 

My acts or my words. I'd a right to say what 

And all that 1 pleased ; to another was not 

Bound, as he was ; I'd no one, of course, to object. 

And I could but feel for him an added respect 

For his truth to the ties that were round him, nor yet 

Did I love him the less that his lips failed to speak 

Words of love which to me would have been very sweet. 

Then with much hesitation I told him, one more 
Matter was there, I wished to refer to, before 
We'd finished our confab. That sometimes I'd thought, 
Since we parted last fall, that I did not know what 
He would think of me, as I at that time, I knew, 
With scarce a remonstrance, submitted unto 
The caresses he ofiered, and feared that he might 
Not perhaps understand, that as almost a right, 
From him I had taken what I should have felt 
As an insult if offered by any one else ; 
And might think I would take from another the same. 
He quickly replied, such a thought never came 
In his mind for a moment ; assuring me, then, 
Most kindly, there never had been a time when 



STOLEN WATERS. 271 

He had felt for me aught but the warmest esteem 
And most thorough respect. 

He, my love, did not dream 
What relief and what gladness those words would afford, 
Or how much of my lost self-respect they restored. 
In return I said merely, I thought that he knew 
That I'd ever reposed most implicit and true 
Confidence in his honor. We both had all through 
Been feeling most deeply, and I had been forced 
To make a slight pause more than once in the course 
Of our conversation, my voice to control. 
Though we spoke but in whispers. And I, on the whole, 
His character knowing so well, how extreme 
Is his reticence, prudence, reserve — and supreme 
His command of himself, think I ought not to be 
Dissatisfied with the result. For that he 
Would say that he loved me, I did not expect. 
Though his manner has often said so, in eflect. 

After sitting a short time in silence, we rose 
To leave, and together went out. I proposed 
To go from there up town, with Annie to spend 
The night ; so an errand it was his intent 
That evening to do he postponed, that he might 
Accompany me. Took a car, and had quite 
A nice chat on the way ; and we left at the street 
Where he used to reside ; though he feared we should meet 
Some one that he knew, and he said there were those, 
And many, who'd be but too glad to disclose 
To his wife aught like that. 

He had been holding close 
My hand, which he'd taken on leaving the car, 



272 STOLEN WATERS. 

But between the two avenues, which was not far, 

He released it, and folding his arm about me, 

Held me thus while we walked a short distance ; then he 

Again drew my hand in his arm. We turned down 

The avenue, paused at the Park, where we found 

Ourselves shcirtly after, and leaned o'er the gate, 

He proposing we leap in the fountain. I gave 

A laughing assent, saying we would have thus 

Death together^ if life union was denied us ! 

*' And I thought 'twere delicious to die then, if death • 

Would come while my mouth was yet moist with his 

breath ! " 
Again, taking me to my friend Annie's door. 
Kissed, and bade me farewell, and we parted once more. 



June 18th, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

How one event crowds on another ! To-night 
I have, as in general, so much to ^vrite, 
I hardly know where to begin. Much, I mean. 
Which relates to my heart-life, by others unseen. 

What an odd thing my friendship is with John Allair I 
Our fates seem somehow strangely mingled, and where 
It all is to end, I know not. There, indeed. 
Is a warmth and ajffection between us, we read 
Or hear of but seldom. He's called me, for long, 
His " dear sister ! " and that epithet covers strong 



STOLES WATERS. 273 



'J 



Expressions of ardent attachment. In truth, 

He makes love to me under that gnise, and, forsooth, 

Does it ijrettily, too I He tells me that I am 

His " pet sister," his " fondest attachment." I can 

Have not an idea how much benefit 

My letters have been to him ; and I permit 

Him to say all the sweet things he chooses, while he 

Thinks he gives naught but friendship, nor claims more 

from me. 
And, indeed, he knows well that my heart is another's, 
And that I can only " love him as a brother." 
"^'ell I since I wrote last, I in trouble have been — 
Quite innocently on my part, though — with him. 
It again is all settled, vet 7"hardlv know, 
"WTiat to think of him. We, for two years past, or so, 
Have written the other a letter each week ; 
Both written on Sabbath, both being received 
About the same hour Thursday mom — though sometimes 
TTntil the late mail he does not receive mine. 
The week subsequent to my last record here, 
His letter came promptly, as usual. A dear. 
Charming, flattering letter it was, too, all through ! 
In the course of it, he was referring unto 
The receipt of my last, and as follows he writes : 
'* It seemed, as I read it, as if by your side. 
In actual converse with you, I then sat. 
I was in such a state of communion, ere that, 
With you, and your letter then brought you, in fact, 
So much nearer to me than you have been before. 
That, when the spell vanished, it left me once more 
The same feeling of sad and regretful unrest 
Which I often have known, and yet cannot express 

12* 



274 STOLEN WATERS. 

Or account for. But it was so pleasant and grand 
To feel, yes ! to really /be^ the full, bland. 
Sweet influence of your lovely spirit ! I'm sure 
That my heart must have held conversation with yours, 
A nd feel certain that you were then thinking of me. 
Cannot you recollect where you were on that eve, 
And what doing ? Do try, dear ! and in your reply 
Fail not to inform me." 

Then thanks sent for my 
Compliment with regard to the change I had seen 
In his letters of late. He had hoped I would deem 
They had changed for the better, and he was quite proud 
To receive such assurance from me. He avowed 
More indebted for it to the " dear little friend 
Who had been to him more than a sister, and sent 
Her blest influence him to assist in attempts 
At self-culture," he was, than to any beside. 
And 'twas his most sincere, earnest prayer that she might, 
For the manner in which she that part had performed 
Of her mission on earth, have a full, sweet reward. 
Adding, " So do not think, little dear stricken heart, 
Tiiat your life is a blank ! " 

Of this letter, a part 
To Nettie, my dear friend, I read. Many times 
She exclaimed at its elegance, praising its fine. 
Pleasing sentiments, and, when at her strong desire 
I had shown her his picture, which much she admired, 
lu her arch, pretty way she uplifted her head. 
And, " how can you help loving him, darling," she said, 
*' When he is so handsome, and loves you so, too ? 
To say nothing of his charming letters to you I " 



SrOLEJT WATERS. 275 

She mo':L^b.: liieiu and 'till rerzcimly. we were engaged. 
And believeii nzinga: I c-oiild to die conmiry sav. 

I coald not sfc first reoolleci bow I pvsaed 
Theeroiii^ to wbidibe lefexred; but aiilaat 
It all m an iwafciit across mj miiid fladbed. 
Sittn^ dose to m j lofwey in tiie Ik.'s leading-iWMD, 
In sach deep copTeraatkm it u^it be psesomed 
rd no tboog^lLt but fer bim wbo tiien sat beside aie. 
And I wiabed it bad been any odier time be 
Had desired infonnatioD cfmcemiiig; bat knev 
Tbat part <^ bis letter I wmai rqpfy to 
Or o^»d bini; of coarse, I coald tdl bim, too, nan^t 
Bat die trotb, wbidi I did; bot jet wiifcing, I tboog^t. 
About it, in sodi a -waj beM feeAj indeed, 
IUtb»- fiattered tban odmwise^ Widl, I l ecc i nid 
Hjs reptr in doe time. Tvas bne^ cold, and be wrote 
OommonfJaces akme. And be said at the dose — 
^Ktbisnote, dear'* (die onlj place wbere tike first word 
Of endeannoit — of idiidi be is larisb — oeeoned), 
'* ProTes aninteresting, does not satisfy, 
Yoa must excuse me, for a good Idtter I 
Gould not write Toa to-dar, so anbke it I leel ; 
And tbe reasaaa I m^^T, perbs^is, some daj reTeaL 
Be a good giii, and ever rememb»- joar fiooid ! '^ 
I uns bodi p^iplesed and indignant. Tbe end 
Was modi like tbe wbole. I coald all o'leriook 
Exc^yt one thing ! — die coldness, coostraint I coald brook, 
ThinlriTig be mi^t be troabled, in spirite dqpress^ 
Were ir not for tbe manner in wbicb 'twas addressed — 
" My dear finoid ! ** At tbe be^ be in general writes, 
<' My sweet sister, " ^My dear little pet,** and die fike^ 



276 STOLEN WATERS. 

And I knew there was naught but displeasure with me 

That could prompt him to \^Tite in that way ; and could sea 

No cause for it, either, but what I wrote him 

Of how I was occupied on the evening 

Of which he inquired ; and I could not see why 

That sliould had such results. I regretted that I 

Had written about it ; though he, in effect 

"Forced me to. And yet, what is his right to object 

To my passing the eve with whoever I choose ? 

Does he think all companionship I must refuse, 

While I hold correspondence with him — a mere friend ? 

If he does, I imagine he'll find, in the end, 

His mistake. And the more I thought of it, the more 

I indignant became. Nettie, looking it o'er, 

Declared that at length he had " found, with surprise, 

That his friendship turns out to be love in disguised 

And I thought even he could not censure me much 

If I half suspected the same. There was such 

An air, too, of misery all the way through ; 

And that no trifling thing it could be, I well knew, 

To cause him to write in that manner to me. 

I did not reply 'till the next Sabbath eve, 
And then said — " Let us not repetition have, John, 
Of last summer's experience. If I have done 
Aught to vex you, why, tell me with frankness what, and 
I'll apologize, or take it back, if I can. 
Whatever it may be, you surely must know 
It was done innocently, unwittingly ; so 
My conscience is clear, and I'd certainly no 
Desire but to please you." The following week 
Came his usual letter — although, of course, he'd 



STOLEN WATEB8. 277 

Not received mine as yet, as four days are required 

For a letter to go, and so when we desire 

To receive more than one in two weeks, it becomes 

Necessary for two sets of letters, not one ; 

So this was the answer to one sent before : — 

It was long, and as loving as ever, and bore 

To the other no reference ; but, there was quite 

An undertone through it of sadness, unlike 

Any I have had from him before. Did not write 

As early as usual, in fact, not 'till night. 

Then said — " But while I've, dear, been silent all day, 

I do not think you've from my thoughts been away 

For more than five minutes at any one time. 

And not often for such a duration. In fine. 

In my thoughts you've a fixture become ! " 

This, I deemed| 
Was a good deal to say ! Many other nice things, 
And pleasant, he said, that I cannot write here. 
It is too bad to tease him so, he's such a dear, 
Good boy, such a kind, such a true, Joving friend ! 
And to do so I certainly did not intend. 
The next week brought an answer to mine, which 

contained 
Of the cause a complete explanation, the same 
"Which I had surmised. And then, lest that should not 
Kestore him in full to his place in my heart, 
Wrote again in a few days. Since then it has been 
All right, and I think no more of it. 

Within 
The past month I have thought with more seriousness 
Than I ever have previously done, I confess, 



278 STOLEN WATERS. 

Of my love giving up. And I ne'er realized 

So fully before what a great sacrifice 

It would be, what an effort 'twould cost. Opening 

A book, pencil-marks of his were the first thing 

Which I saw there. I entered the parlors, wherein 

Were so many things to remind me of him — 

The rocker he'd lounged in, the sofa where we 

Together had sat, books and albums which he 

Had handled. Upstairs I came, opened my desk. 

There were letters in his clear handwriting addressed, 

His dear picture beside them. Each time I exclaimed, 

With a shudder, " How can I ! " And when evening came, 

And I opened my journal to write, I discerned, 

The first thing, a poem he sent me ; I turned 

A few leaves, and a picture was there brought to view, 

Which was eloquent of the bright hour when we two 

Looked at it together — and his name I found 

Upon every page. Closed my book, and threw down — 

Without writing — my pen. My heart turned sick with 

dread, 
And " I never can do it, I cannot!'''' I said. ^ . 

I felt that there was a vast difierence between 
Giving him up entirely, and living on e'en 
The terms we do now. I dismissed from my mind 
All thought of the sacrifice. 

Some little time 
Ago, I received a newspaper from him ; 
Expecting it, answered the carrier's ring 
Myself, and upstairs took it, ere I went back 
To the room I had left, and where mother then sat. 
She said naught of it, but it seems thought the more. 
For, a few days thereafter, I sKpped out the door 



STOLEN WATERS. 279 

And ran to the box at the corner, a note 

To him to deposit. Mamma did not know 

That we, since we parted some three years ago, 

Have had any intercourse. When back I came, 

She asked if to him I was writing again. 

I could not deny it, of course ; on the whole. 

Found " open confession was good for the soul." 

I told her, with tears which I could not repress. 

The whole bitter truth ; nothing did I suppress. 

And I'm so glad she knows it ! It's taken, indeed. 

From my mind a great burden. That I had deceived 

My dear, kind, loving mother, has long been to me 

A most bitter thought. And I knew, too, that she, 

Felt almost contempt for uny darling ; but when 

I told her how generous, noble, he'd been — 

In all this long time how he never had made 

One attempt, e'en, the slightest advantage to take 

Of the love he had long known so well, and how true 

His regard and esteem was for me, and how, too, 

I thoroughly honor and trust him — how glad 

I was I could say it ! — she told me if that 

Was the truth, he was one in a thousand ; and said, 

Though that I should love him she could but regret, 

To our being good friends slie would never object, 

Nor, indeed, to our seeing each other, so long 

As she now was assured there was nothing more wrong. 

My dear mother ! so kind to her sad, wayward child ! 

God bless her ! and keep me from turning her smiles 

To tear-drops of sorrow ! It gave me such joy 

She should change her opinion of Idm, my dear boy ! 

Such gladness to have her at length learn to know 

All his true worth and honor. 



280 STOLEK WATERS. 

A few days ago, 
I was in at the store for a sliort time, and had 
"With him quite a nice, pleasant little confab. 
All the good looks his illness last winter dispelled 
He'd regained ; and that day he was looking so well, 
And so handsome, I fell in love over again ! 
He promised to write me on Friday, and when 
The next morning passed by without bringing to me 
The dear note, I was much disappointed ; but he 
Is as scrupulous, ever, a promise to keep, 
As careful in making one ; so I believed 
He had a good reason. The note was received 
Yesterday. 'Twas a nice, pleasant letter, indeed ! 
He said he was sorry that I should have been 
Disapj)ointed that morning in hearing from him; 
But Friday he could not the time get to say 
Even one word to me. 

I've been feeling, to-day, 
"Very sad ! For " forbidden fruit " pining in vain ; 
My heart aching with dull and incurable pain 
For the soft " stolen waters " of his priceless love, 
Which would be to me so passing sweet — sweet, above 
All the passion and depth of another's! Once more 
I revolved in my mind, as I have done before, 
If 'twere possible for me my love to give up, *■ 
And from my heart's chambers his dear presence shut. 
But from the dread prospect as usual I shrink. 
And to him my weak heart still persistently clings. 
How much I would like, on this beautiful night, 
A ramble with him in the clear, soft moonlight ; 
Or a nice, cosey chat, in a nice, pleasant room, 
Open casements, our only light that of the moon. 



STOLEN WATERS. 281 

Others such bliss enjoy, why should I be denied ! 

How I envy her who has an undoubted right 

To his presence, his love, his caresses ! * And she 

Does not know her good fortune, does not, I believe, 

Her happiness prize as she should. And would I, 

I wonder, if I could her place occupy ? 

1 think so, yet " each heart knows its own bitterness," 

And how much there is of " connubial bliss " 

In that household, I've no means of knowing. I've thought; 

Sometimes, he loves me ! but if so, or if not, 

I never shall know. How unutterably sweet 

Words of love from his dear lips would be — he who speaks 

So little. Yet I could scarce love or respect 

Him so much, were he not always so circumspect, 

So faithful, so careful to ever be true 

To her unto whom his allegiance is due. 

My good, precious boy ! lost forever to me, 

Yet how dear to my heart must my love ever be ! 



July Uth, 1867. 

SUNDAY. 

Have been quite indisposed all the day, and to-night 
Am so very unhappy ! too much so to write, 
Or to do aught but weep ; for there's now going on 
In my mind, such a conflict between right and wrong, 
Religion and love ! And oh ! what can I do ? 
What ought I to do ! How I wish that I knew 
And had courage to do it. I feel there is naught 
I can do in regard to the former, without 



282 STOLEN WATERS. 

I make an entire sacrifice of the last. 

Unless I can root from my heart all the vast 

Wealth and power of this fatal passion. How can 

I give up my darling ? How part from the man 

Who is dearer to me than the whole world beside ? 

Could the struggle I ever sustain ? Is there life, 

Strength, endurance, enough in my heart to suffice 

To support me, my broken heart heal ? God alone 

Knows how bitter 'twould be. Gould I part from "mj 

own " 
Forever ? Put far from my sight everything 
That in any degree should remind me of him? 
Never hope him to see or to hear from again ? 
'Twould indeed be a trial most fearful ! And when 
It was o'er, in my life what a drear blank 'twould leave. 
Once resolved on, I would not turn back, I believe ; 
But I fear the required resolution will be 
Not obtained very soon. I'll think of it, and see. 



July 15th, 1867. 

MONDAY. * 

Only twenty-four hours since herein I wrote last ; 
And more than twelve hours ago was the die cast, 
The deed done, and the fatal words said that will part 
Me forever from him who's the j oy of my heart, 
The dearest of all earthly objects to me. 
And whose name is inscribed on this book's every leaf. 
I write this with no tear ; for my fountain of grief 



STOLEN WATERS, 283 

Hours ago was exhausted. The tear-drops have all 
Trickled down to my heart, and lie there like a pall, 
A dead weight of sorrow. 

Last night I spent hours 
In weeping, and deep, troubled thought ; for the power 
Of conscience, awakened, would make itself heard. 
And pierced my poor heart with each soft-spoken word. 
It told me that I had been sinful and weak ; 
Had yielded, where I should resisted. Like Eve, 
I had suffered myself to be tempted, beguiled 
Into tasting of fruit that's forbidden. And while 
Unto tlie dominion of passion so wrong — 
Notwithstanding its purity — I should succumb, 
I never could hope to regain what I lost 
Years ago, grace and favor of God. If I was 
Not feeling to Him as I ought, I at least 
Could my duty perform, and the whole issue leave 
In His hands ! And when at the untold sacrifice 
My heart murmured, and in bitter agony cried 
That its idol it could not give up, a reply 
To my soul in a small, stilly voice softly came — 
*' Shall Jesus for you have died wholly in vain? 
Think what He for you suffered ! and can you not do 
This, even, for Him ? " Thus presented unto 
My mind was the subject, and neither covild I 
Of it rid myself, nor its force could deny. 
In a case such as that, how could I hesitate ? 
To the tempter how list, when the Voice Divine spake. 
And so " through many pangs of heart, through many tears 
Was the firm resolve born that my idol for years 
Should be shattered, torn out of my heart, given up 
In a sacrifice whole and entire, ever shut 



284 STOLEN WATERS. 

From all part in a life he had made bitter-sweet. 
A resolve which ne'er faltered, amid all the deep 
Pain and anguish, and bitter despair which it caused — 
And my Father above knows alone what that was ! 
So religion and conscience have triumphed at length, 
Done what coldness, and slights, all my will's force and 

strength. 
The contempt of the world, or a mother's regret, 
Or even the loss of my own self-respect. 
Could never accomplished. A blank, oh, how dreary, 
Is stretching before me ! A life, oh, how weary 
Must henceforth be mine ! I can't think of it yet, 
Cannot yet realize of my act the effect. 
Or say to myself I shall never again 
See or hear from my darling, from him who has been 
My one thought, whether sleeping or waking, for years. 
Oh, my burden is more, is far greater, I fear. 
Then I ever can bear ! God have mercy on me, 
Or my heart it will break ! Such a pressure of grief 
Is crushed down upon it, I scarcely can breathe. 
Oh ! my Father in heaven, give pity, relief! 

How full of sharp agony was the whole night ! 
And nothing but misery came with the light. 
Yet I know but too well that the worst is to come. 
When I from my heart must drive all thoughts of one 
Still and ever, so dear. "When I can but succumb 
To the sorrow that must almost crush me ; the dumb, 
Speechless anguish I yet must endure. I cannot 
Anticipate it ! It is fearfully hard ! 
To him my decision this morning I sent, 
Writing nearly as follows : 



STOLEN WATERS. ^ 285 

" My Dearest ! 

" Again, 
And for the last time, I am writing to you, 
To say, wholly and irrevocably, too, 
I at last give you up ! Do not smile, as you read, 
And wonder how many days there will, indeed. 
Elapse, ere another from me is received. 
I am not trifling now, but am, as you must know, 
In most mis'rable earnest. Nor do I say so 
In a moment of pique at my sad, wasted love, 
Kor of anger with you — ^you who always have proved 
In the end, ever noble and kind, ever true — 
But after a night's hopeless pain, such as you 
May, I trust, never know. Neither think, dear, that aught 
You have done is the cause. I am sure you will not. 
When I tell you that never I one-half so well 
Have loved you as this moment, when saying farewell — • 
Though the sad, fatal words that shall part us, my pen 
Now refuses almost to transcribe. * And what then ? ' 
You will ask ! Simply this : that at length 
My religion and principle's conquered, and naught 
Beside such a great change could ever have wrought. 
Between me and my God hitherto you have stood. 
Though to you quite unconsciously. I to Him could 
Offer naught while I cherished a passion so wrong 
As I knew was my love, notwithstanding its strong 
And deep purity. Nor dare 1 hesitate now. 
Or longer ignore obligations and vows 
I took on myself years ago. You have been 
The innocent cause of a blight rendering 
All my happiness here, but I can't permit you 
To make void all my hopes of felicity, too. 



2SQ STOLEI^ WATERS. 

In the blissful hereafter. I know that all this 

You feel not yourself; but know, too, my love is 

No sceptic, and in its existence I trust 

You believe. And some day, I am sure that you must 

Experience what will unite us as friends 

In that land far beyond the dark river, where ends 

All sorrow and pain, where no partings are known, 

Should we meet ne'er again 'till we meet at God's throne. 

To this it has come ! Shall this thing I not do 

For Jesus, who died both for me and for you ? 

I am no enthusiast ; I do not feel 

These things as I ought ; but when duty's revealed 

So plainly to me I can ne'er hesitate. 

That at least I can do, though my heart it should break. 

Do not think I am wavering, either, or that 

My feelings will change. I do nothing by half. 

And as ^Thave loved you with my whole heart, as your 

Caresses, and letters, and v/ords the most pure 

And exquisite pleasure have given to me, 

So now I, my darling, give them up, and " thee," 

At once and forever ! You never will know 

What the effort has cost me ; how fearful the blow ; 

Or what dark, dreary days I in future must see. 

When the one bitter thought of my sad heart will be, 

* My love I shall see never more, never more. 

Until death's gates are passed, 'till life's fever is o'er ! ' 

Some idea, perhaps, you may have, of how vast 

Is the sacrifice, when, in recalling the past. 

You think with what strong pertinacity I 

Have clung to you nearly four years now gone by, 

Notwithstanding the humiliation and pain 



STOLEN WATERS. 287 

Which was caused by affection so hopeless and vain. 

But you never will realize all the extent 

Of the anscuish with which this decision is sent. 

Consider ! You'd never give me up, I knew ; 

Never say, ' I shall write no more letters to you, 

Another appointment I never will keep ! ' 

Knew, if it was done, ray hand must do the deed. 

Indignation or anger I'd not, to assist, 

Or urge 'gainst a heart, every fibre of which 

Pleads so strongly for you. And I knew I could see 

Or hear from you often, and that you would be 

Ever noble and true. Think of this — how replete 

With f)leasure, how deeply, bewild'ringly sweet 

Has our intercourse been, and you can but perceive 

That 'tis after no slight striiggle I these words write. 

It is fearfully hard ! but yet rendered more light 

From the fact that I suffer alone ; that you will 

Not the cruel stroke feel as I must do. And still, 

I think you my decision perhaps may regret. 

That 'twill cause you a few bitter pangs to reflect 

That the fond little friend, true to you, at such cost, 

And for such a long time, you forever have lost. 

But you'll know that she'll never forget you — your name 

Will e'er thrill her heart with a touch of the same 

Old, beautiful music — that she'll never love 

Another, as she has loved you — far above 

And beyond all the world you must stand in her heart, - 

Though she writes, with her own hand, the words, * we must 

part ! ' 
And that you'll forget her^ she has never a fear. 
You'll think of her on the last day of the year. 



288 STOLEN WATERS, 

On the glad Christmas Eve. Think of one, now and then, 

Who loved you too well, if not wisely, and, when 

She loved you most dearly, resigned you, because 

She felt it was right. And if I've ever lost, 

In any degree, your respect — which, indeed, 

I've no reason to think, and which you a few weeks 

Ago kindly assured me had not been the case — 

This I trust will restore it. And I in this place 

Wish to render you thanks for your kindness so true, 

Forbearance, and rare generosity, too ; 

Gentle patience, and noble, complete self-control, 

WTiich enables us now to look back on the whole. 

And think, notwithstanding we may have done wrong, 

We have never l^een criminal. Thanks to your strong, 

Serene, and grand nature, your heart true and kind. 

For your goodness to me ; and God bless you ! 

" In fine, 
I would see you once more ere the farewell is said. 
Will you call on me here ? Mother will not object ; 
She knows all, and feels for you the same true respect 
And honor that I do. And while far apart 
Our steps widely lead, the one prayer of my heart 
Is that blessings may follow you all the world o'er. 
And that God will my dear one preserve evermore, 
'Till unto our rent souls comes a beautiful morn — 
When succeeds to death's darkness eternity's dawn. 
This is not my farewell ! That alone I can speak 
When your arms are around me, your lips on my cheek, 
And your true heart responding to mine at each beat — 
Until then T remain 

" All your own, 

" Bitter Sweet." 



STOLEN WATEB8. 289 

A few days, and it all will be over ! The dream 
So sweet will have ended. My darling will seem 
To drop out of my life as if dead — dead to me 
Forever and ever, until we shall meet 
Where all are united eternally, where 
There can be no partings, no Triarriage, and there 
I, too, shall be his, and he all mine, at last ! 
The feverish dream 's with the vanishing past ; 
I to calmness must now school my heaii;, so bereft, 
And in silence endure all the pain that is left. 



July 30th, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

Two weeks have elapsed since my farewell I sent 
To my love ; yet I have not, until this p.m., 
Either heard from or seen him. I did not know how 
To account for it. Feeling I could not allow 
Him to slip from my life without even one more 
Interview with my dear one, although, as of yore, 
Pride rebelled, I resolved I would call at the store. 
The cause of this long, crviel silence to find. 
Felt I'd crushed down my pride before too many times 
To yield to it now, and one more sacrifice 
Could matter but little — let that thought suffice — 
And" went in to-day. He did seem very glad 
To see me, and I could but think that I had 
Never seen him so handsome as he looked to-day. 
Just my beau ideal in every way ! 
13 



290 STOLEN WATERS. 

In looks, dress, appearance, a gentleman true, 

My precious, lost darling ! How plain to my vie"W 

Comes this moment his image before me, as he 

Appeared when to-day he stood talking to me. 

Leaning carelessly over the counter, thereon 

Carving triangles, letters in various forms, 

And list'ning attentively, smiling or grave, 

To all that I said, glancing up as he gave 

His opinion on matters of which we conversed. 

Or his answers to me. Splendid, always ! my first, 

Only love ! While on my part I both watched and marked 

Every changing expression ; anew on my heart 

Stamped each feature, in deep, ineffaceable lines. 

At once I referred to the letter of mine. 
And his failure an answer to send. He replied. 
That I asked no return ; he thought none was required. 
I requested that he would come out, and he thought 
To do so as soon as he could, but had not 
Found as yet opportunity. J^said one thing 
Was certain : he could not be gladder to bring 
To a close our acquaintance, more glad it was o'er, 
Than I was. He turned to me quickly, with more 
Of pain in his eyes than I've seen there before. 
And earnestly said, " Are you glad it is o'er ? " 
That Z'm inconsistent, I know very well ! 
But, forgetting love's sweets, at that moment I felt 
Its bitterness only, and thought I could give 
The former, if I of the last might be rid. 
I told him I had not expected that he 
Would care very much, but I thought tlat for me 



STOLEN WATERS. 291 

And my feelings he'd have some regard. With a touch 

Of bitterness answered he, " I cared so much, 

Had so much regard, I decided to go 

Out to see you, but absent have been, and had no 

Opportunity yet, as before I have said." 

I told him I knew not but that he was vexed 

At what I had written of mother, as when 

She first knew about it he felt so. But then 

It was different, he said, and he rather was glad 

Than otherwise, now, that she knew it, and had 

No hesitancy about coming out. Thought 

He would quite like to see her — would rather than not. 

He said that if possible he'd come this week. 

In the first of my record this evening, I speak 
Of my pride sacrificing by having gone in 
To ascertain why I had not heard from him. 
And I wish to say, now, that not one moment I 
Have regretted it. Neither have I, by the by, 
Any similar sacrifice. I never let 
My love conquer pride, with an after regret. 
And he never seemed to think "'twas any cause 
Of triumph to him, or involved any loss 
Of my dignity or self-respect. When I've felt 
Mortified at my own want of firmness, myself, 
And weakness in yielding so much to my strong, 
Overpowering love for him, potent so long. 
Never word, look, or act of his added unto 
My humiliation, or showed that he knew 
Or had e'er thourrht of it. And how late I have learned 
To prize all his goodness to me — to discern 
His grand generosity, charity, truth. 



292 STOLEN WATERS. 

Only after a four years' acquaintance, forsootli, 

And when I am losing him, too. But I am 

So thankful that I have known him 'till I nau 

Be assured that I have not unworthily love J. 

But one who on every occasion has proved 

How superior he to myself is, as well 

As the most of his sex. He's so good ! I'm /«pellsd 

More and more to esteem him each time that we mrtl 

And I left him to-day, loving him with more (*eep 

And perfect a love than I ever have done, 

Were that possible. Yet I must give up the ooe 

Who is so dear to me ! And I thought this p.m., 

After my return home, 'twas indeed hard, that, whe*n 

A brief interview with my love gave to me 

Such pure and entire happiness, I must be 

Deprived of that, even ; that I from my heart 

Must bid his dear image forever depart. 

And learn to be reconciled to the sad thought 

That I never shall see him again. Oh ! how fraughfe 

With anguish those words are ! Of that when I think, 

" All my sunshine grows suddenly dark," and I shrink 

From the fearful ordeal I yet have to bear ; 

And my calmness is but the falsehood of despair. 



August 6thf 1867. 



TUESDAY. 



With a heart almost broken beneath its dread load 
Of gi'ief and bereavement, with eyes overflowed 



STOLEN WATERS. 293 

With hot tears, trembling hand, and a faltering pen, 

In this book, which has been for so long my dear friend, 

Companion, and confidante, come I to make 

My last record. For I can but feel that this day 

Should close the account of the baneful, and yet 

Most beautiful past, all its love and regret, 

All its sweetness and pain, all its sorrow and trust ; 

And that when I shall open another, it must 

On its pages no traces contain of the sad, 

Troubled waters that these have long flooded. 

I had 
No visit last week from my love, but received 
On Saturday morning a note, saying he 
Had thought he should see me ere that, but was quite 
Unwell, and unless he should get out that night 
Would be forced to defer it 'till Tuesday — to-day. 
I expected him this afternoon, and must say 
I was much disappointed when failing to come. 
But I had, just at night, such a headache come on, 
I half wished that he still might defer it, although 
'Twas with heart-throbs of pleasure I saw him approach, 
And with warm, happy welcome met him at the door. 

What an evening we spent ! All the sweet shadowed o'er 
By the pain of the parting that yet was in store. 
Sitting close on the sofa, my hand in his clasp, 
Conversing of future, and present, and past, 
Living ages of happiness in the few brief, 
Fleeting moments of this all too-swift-passing eve ; 
And yet, with a thread of despair through the whole, 
Realizing with pain which we could not control 
That this was the last ! Oh ! but it was, indeed. 



294: STOLEN WATERS. 

To us each, in one moment, both bitter and sweet, 
Both happy and sad. 

We referring again 
To mamma's knowing of the relation which then 
Existed between us, he said that he felt 
Much pleased at that part of my letter, as well 
As greatly relieved. Was most glad that she knew 
All about it, and that I'd told him of it, too. 
Surely ! that alone proves how sincere, pure, and true 
His regard for me is. I reproached him, that he 
Had ever so very reserved been with me, 
And he said all his friends of the same thing complained. 
But so strong were his feelings that he was constrained 
To use much reserve, or he could not keep them 
At all under control ; and also to prevent 
His saying a great many things he ought not. 
How true that " deep waters flow stilly," I thought. 
And that natures which are most reserved are the ones 
Most exquisitely sensitive, most finely strung. 
And susceptible unto emotion most strong. 
He has great self-command — I have known it for long. 

What a pleasure I felt it to be, to tell him 
How greatly endeared to my heart he had been 
By acquaintance more close ; how much more I'd esteemed 
And honored him as the swift years, like a dream, 
Flitted onward ; and added — as my cheek I pressed 
To his, which was then on my shoulder at rest — 
*' And I think that you are a much better man, too. 
Than you were when we met four years since ; do not you ? " 
In a voice with emotion all broken, he said, 
" I hojye I am, dear ! " And I know that, instead 



STOLEN WATEB8. 295 

Of being to me a defilement, this sweet, 

Entire, perfect love, has been to me of deep, 

Lasting benefit, and a strong safeguard, as well. 

Loving him, I from others attentions repelled. 

Which, received, might my happiness ruined for life. 

Who knows not through sufiering we're purified ? 

And as I've suffered deeply — Iww deeply, there's One 

Alone knows — so I trust that my soul has become 

Purified by the discipline which it has known. 

And, to-day, feel that not in religion alone, 

But in character, principles, morals, I am 

Better now than I was four years since. No one can 

But acknowledge a high, pure, and perfect love has 

A refining influence upon the heart, that 

Reads the discipline of disappointment aright. 

I believe the effect upon him has been like. 

And though I in all cases the tempter have been, 

Yet I feel that the influence I''ve had o'er him. 

On the whole, has been only for good. And I'm glad t 

How rejoiced, too, I am that I now can look back 

And say lie's never offered to me one temptation ; 

But has, in all things, been the impersonation 

Of truly magnanimous honor. My own 

Peerless love ! I am glad, very glad to have known 

Him, although it has brought me such pain as to-night 

I've been forced to endure. 

When I asked him not quite 
To forget me, he said, no ; it was not with ease 
We old, sweet recollections ignore, and that he 
Should think very often of me ; he supposed 
He should not ever see me again I Very close 
Was the clasp which he held me within, as we felt 



« 
296 STOLEN WATERS. 

All the force of those words. We could not trust ourselves 

To speak much of that time, and each moment it seemed 

More and more that I never could give up the dream 

That had been, oh, so sweet ! or the farewell words say 

That should part us forever. Oh ! how my heart ached, 

As the time swift approached when I knew he must go — 

Go to come nevermore. Oh, why rtiust it be so ? 

God help me to bear this unutt'rable woe ! 

We sat for a long time in silence complete. 

His arm holding me tight, his face pressed to my cheek. 

Our hearts almost bursting with anguish so vast, 

With full realization that this was the last. 

Oh, how bitter-sweet these moments were as they passed ! 

How we clung to each other with pain at the dread 

Ordeal through which we both had to pass yet. 

When our last we must look in each other's dear eyes, 

Where despair could but enter as hope slowly died. 

When our hands must be clasped for the last time on earth, 

And our quivering lips speak the last farewell words. 

I begged him to tell me once ere we should part. 
That he loved me ; but only more close to his heart 
Did he press me, and murmured, " Oh, don't ask me, dear ; 
Do not ask me ; you ought not ! " His voice, soft and clear 
In general, now sounded husky and strange. 
I urged him no longer — was answered — 'twas plain 
That he loved me ; I needed no words to assure 
Me of what I were foolish to doubt. And though pure 
And perfect the joy would have been from his lips 
The sweet words once to hear, I did not, I admit, 
Love him less that those words were wdthheld. Very few 



STOLEN WATEB8. 297 

Would temptation so strong have resisted, I knew. 
And I felt very thankful my love was so true. 

It was time he should go ! He arose, crossed the rooa 
Returned, and beside me his seat he resumed ; 
With his arm around me, his cheek on my bowed head, 
He so earnestly, sweetly, caressingly said : 
" I will tell you, dear, how it shall be ! We'll forget 
Everything that is bad, all the good recollect. 
The remembrance of all that is sweet, that reflects 
Any pleasure to us when the past we recall, 
We will cherish forever ; and we will let all 
That's bitter or painful from memory fade. 
And never again in our thoughts have a place. 
Say ! shall it be thus ? " And I, too much moved 
To reply, by my silence alone could approve. 
For a moment he strained me again very close 
To his warm, throbbing heart, where he held me, as though 
He could not let me go ; then he once more arose, 
But paused 'neath the chandelier, taking a book 
From the table, at which he indeed scarcely looked ; 
Then, laying it down, toward me turned again ; 
I had also arisen, stood leaning against 
The table behind him — eyes drooping, downcast. 
And a sad, bleeding heart ; both my hands he then clasped, 
Leaned his brow against mine and looked into my eyes ; 
They were brimful of tears, and as he turned to hide 
His emotion, I said to him, " This is the last, 
And you do not care ! " What reproach and pain passed 
Into both eye and tone, as he said in reply 
Merely, " Do not talk so ! " 

But time fleetly flew by, 

13* 



298 STOLEN WATERS. 

And we knew lie must go ; that tlie moment had come 

When my darling must leave me to never return. 

What a lifetime of anguish was crowded in those 

Few moments of parting ! Again clasping close 

The hands he still held, stooped and — for the first time 

This evening — with warmth pressed his dear lips to mine, 

In a passionate, lingering kiss of farewell. 

What love and despair it expressed, who can tell ? 

I stood where he left me, despondent, cast down, 

With no hope in my heart, and with eyes on the ground, 

'Till he turned, with his hand on the door ; then I raised 

My eyes, and how radiant was his dear face. 

With the strong love for me which would not be denied, 

In a moment like this, all expression ! Shall I 

Forget ever that look ? Not while reason and life 

Shall endure. And half-sobbing, " You do love me, then," 

I sprang toward him and was folded again 

Within an embrace so impassioned and strong. 

As my fluttering breath to inpede — and how long 

I scarcely can tell. But he murmured at last, 

" Farewell, and God bless you ! " released me, and passed 

From my sight ; and the closed door shut out all the light, 

Joy, and hope of a life that is henceforth a blight, 

A dreary and wearisome blank. Oh, my God ! 

Have pity, I pray ; give relief to this load. 

Which is more than I ever can bear ! 

Of the time 
Just after he left me this evening, my mind 
Ketains no recollection. But know that I found 
Myself on the sofa, reclining face down, 
My head on my clasped hands, ^vith no sob, and no tear, 
But my heart almost breaking with bitter and drear 



STOLEN WATERS. 299 

Hopeless agony, sucli as I pray I may ne'er 
Experience more. '\Vliile it cried in its pain, 
** Oh my darling, my love, come back to me again ! 
Come back, oli, come back, I can not let you go ! " 
But the echoes with mocking despair answered, " No, 
Nevermore, nevermore ! " 

It is midnight ! and sleep 
Refusing her watch by my pillow to keep. 
Though my temples are throbbing with pain, and my hand 
With exhaustion is trembling, and with no command 
Of my fluttering pulses, I've risen to write 
In my journal these faltering lines, and unite 
With my last sad farewell to my sorrowful love, 
My adieus to this also ; erecting above 
This grave of my heart the one blank, brittle stone 
Of forgetfulness ; praying for what one alone 
Can bestow, peace and calm to the storm in my breast, 
A rebuke to the troubled waves never at rest. 

" Stolen waters o^re Sweet ! "" But the most abject woe 
Lies hidden their glittering wavelets belowv^- '^, ,, - 
No more shall the baneful and beautiful draught ^^r^^ 
Touch the lips, which before have so eagerly quafied 
Of the bright, sparkling waters. No more shall I know 
The bliss or the pain it so long has bestowed, 
Love's goblet is shattered ! the contents, I found 
Both bitter and sweet, are all spilled on the gi'ound, 
God forgive all the wrong of the past, and again 
Unite us, where all are eternally friends. 



STOLEN WATERS 



PART THIRD.' 



"What matters a little sorrow if the end is bliss? " 

MRS. Gbet. 



"The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet I " 



SHAXSPSABB.. 




Stolen Waters. 



art C^irJr. 



BROOKLYN. 



August I3th, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

Once more I commence a new journal! and close 
The last, leaving it, with its story of most 
Intense pain, pleasure, passion, and letting the dear 
Inspirer of all drop from out my life here, 
As one that has never existed. Shall it 
Be thus ? Shall I not any mention permit 
In these leaves of my heart, of the one whose dear name 
Has filled the last volumes with beauty and pain, 
As it has for so long filled my heart with its deep 
Thrilling music, so passionate, soft, low, and sweet? 
I canH cease to think of him often, and much ! 
I know not that I wish to forget, or to thrust 



304 STOLEN WATERS, 

The record aside of what has to me been 
So delightful in anticipation, and in 
The realization and sweet retrospect. 
For as he asked that I would alone recollect 
All the good in the past, how can I a request 
So exquisitely tendered refuse ! No ! I'll cease 
To think of the sorrow, suspense, grief, that he's 
Oft unconsciously caused, and remember alone 
The supreme happiness and delight I have known 
In his presence; the joy of expectancy, too, 
And fond recollection. For 'tis indeed true, 
Though to anticipation I've given full rein 
When thinking to see Mm, my hopes ne'er were vain. 
But the realization was far in advance 
Of all I had fancied. Though followed by blank 
Disappointment, extravagant hopes e'er have been 
In all other matters, but never with him. 
On our interviews, brief and infrequent, in fact, 
With not one regret, e'en, I now can look back. 
All has been perfect harmony, truth, tenderness, 
And how much I have lived, I can never express, 
In the few fleeting hours we together have passed. 
Years, I might say, for their recollection will last, 
Will cling to and bless me for long months and years, 
And give to my sad heart much brightness and cheer, 
Replacing with pleasure the darkness and gloom. 

So the pictures that hang on the walls of the room 
Dedicated exclusively unto my love 
In the castle of memory, cheery above 
All the others, the most sacred chamber, indeed, 
Of my heart, shall all brightness and loveliness be ; 



STOLEN WATERS. 305 

With the richest and softest hues all shall be tinged, 

"With lustre most sweet and pure all glittering, 

"With the cord of eternal remembrance all hung, 

By the hand of undying love, fond affection. 

They shall be scenes of hope all fulfilled, friendship true ; 

Of scrupulous honor, sincerity too, 

Temptations resisted, and faith tried and proved, 

Confidence ne'er betrayed, and love, constant and quite 

Involuntarj^ and enduring. The light 

Shed by stars of esteem, true respect, and regard 

Shining over the whole, added charm to impart 

To the pictures so fascinating in themselves. 

Which must ever be dearer to me than aught else. 

" ' Tis sweet to remember ! I would not forego 

The charm which the past o'er the present can throw." 

And so I will riot put him out of my heart. 

And my heart and life's journal. I'll try — although hard 

Is the lesson to learn — him to never regret ; 

But my life's sweetest dream I must fail to forget 

Long as being endures — the bright dream, that to one 

Of my temperament only once ever comes, 

" The sole love that life gave to me." It is true 

" There are loves in some lives for which time can renew 

All that time may destroy. Lives there are in love, too, 

Which cling to one faith, and die with it, nor move 

Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine ! " and such 

love 
I have given to him ! If I would, I cannot 
Forget him. My journal would be, too, without 
Interest to me, should his dear name cease to find 
A place in its pages. If I tlirougli all time 



306 STOLEN WATEB8. 

Shut him out of my life, shall I also deny 
Him a place in my heart, and heart-record ? Shall I, 
When he said he would never forget me, do less 
Than remember him, too ? 

Much surprised, I confess 
I was, some days since, when in town on Broadway 

To meet Mrs. , his wife. I had not, till that day, 

For years seen her ; and then I should not, I dare say. 

Have noticed htr, had she not given a glance 

Of recognition unmistakable, as 

We passed. She was looking indeed very nice ! 

Of course that little incident did not suifice 

To make me any happier. Only brought back 

Old times with more force, and made me very sad. 

Last Sabbath, in church, when I found the first hymn. 
"June 12th, '64," was traced on the margin. 
How strongly that al?o the past did recall ! 
And the day when 'twas written, more plainly than all : 
Sitting there, in that beautiful church, on that bright 
Lovely morning in June, Mr. S. in his quiet 
Deep voice the words reading — above me the face 
Ever dear, dearly loved even then — all the place 
Hushed to silence, unbroken except by the low 
Thrilling tones of the reader ; then softly and slow 
Jlis voice sang the beautiful words, and made them 
Sweeter far than before. It all came back again, 
As the words so familiar now fell on my ear. 
While my eyes slowly filled with such sad, bitter tears. 
1 have not, until then, been at church since that time 
When that hymn has been sung. And now, when I am 
trying 



STOLEN WATERS. 307 

To forget, in a measure, all this, comes to taunt me 

With " bliss that's remembered." How he and his haunt 

me ! 
Fate seems to forbid ray forgetting. Far more 
Do I love him than ever I have done before, 
Now I know that to me he forever is lost. 
Tlie preacher that day said, when any one was 
Peculiarly tried, or liad any great grief, 
They might be assured there was some glad relief. 
Some great blessing in store for them ; as tried and proved 
Was an article ere it was ready for use. 
It comforted me very much. And as I 
Have, God knows ! been of late indeed fearfully tried, 
It may be that something's still waiting for me. 
To make up for the pain I've endured recently. 
I hope so, and that it may come speedily. 

To-night, at the time he came one week ago, 
I of course thought of him, as I have done also 
Through to-day, and in fact every day ; but this eve 
My dear Nettie was in, and it passed, I believe, 
For a very few moments, quite out of my mind, 
'Till I looked at my watch, found 'twas just half-past nine, 
The hour of our parting ! At that very time. 
Only one week ago, on my lips he'd just pressed 
His kiss of farewell — his last lingeriug caress. 
The sweetest that man to a woman e'er gave ! 
And my heart and my pulses stopped beating, as wave 
After wave of remembrance rolled over my soul, 
Kecalling of that bitter evening, the whole. 
Stood still with grief, pain, and unbounded regret. 
" ' Twas sad that our parting should be ! " sad but yet 



308 STOLEN WATERS. 

Inevitable. And perhaps better then 
Than later. It must have come some time, and when 
Less than now should I love him ? for each added year, 
Could but have made him to my heart still more dear, 
Ai.d the parting yet harder to bear. The last week 
Has, God knows, been to me a most sad one, indeed ! 
I have lived through it, though, as I 7nust do all those 
Yet to come. Oh, how many before life shall close ! 
I am yet, oh, so young ! Life to me looks so long ! 
Twenty -two, and its brightness and beauty all gone ! 



August 2d, 1868. 

Almost a year, since I have opened this book ! 
And how has it passed ? One would think but to look 
At my external life, that 'twas calm and serene, 
Would not deem I was mourning a bright, broken dream. 
"Very quiet indeed, has my outward life seemed, 
And as to my true life, that hidden within 
The depths of my heart, that's diversified been. 
Some days have been very unhappy. Days when 
The winds and the waves my frail barque have o'erwhelmed, 
When I found it impossible quite, to suppress 
The sad, intense longing for one dear caress 
From the lips loved so well ; for his presence, a sight 
Of the one deai-, dear face, which would bring joy and light 
To my poor, aching heart ; for a touch of his warm. 
Loving hand, and the clasp of his strong, tender arm. 
When some slight trifling thing would bring all back again 
Wi|;h such force to my mind, it would seem to me then 



STOLEJS' WATERS. 309 

That I never could bear it. And yet, I believe 

That the days which are saddest are those that succeed 

To a night when my dreams have all been of him. Nights 

That came but too oft — dreams which but tantalized. 

I could thoughts of him in some measure control ; 

But over my dreams I had none ; and my soul 

They have made very sad, many times. Not a day 

In this long, weary year, now, thank God ! passed away, 

But I've thought of him much. Not a night, but my last 

Thought and prayer was for him. How has he the yeai 

passed ? 
Oh, would that I knew ! Yet the burden I've borne 
Philosophically on the whole, and have known 
Some pleasant if no happy hours, e'en in this 
Most desolate year, dreary as my life is. 

To the " old church " last Sabbath a visit I paid ; 
But I did not see there the one dear, handsome face 
Whose eyes used to meet mine so kindly. The place 
And service, without him, were quite incomplete ; 
And I'd only the pleasure of retrospect sweet, 
To compensate me for the lost charm. 

August seems 
A fatal month to me ; and what will this bring ? 
From Colonel Allair I'm expecting this week 
A visit. It long has been talked of, indeed, 
And now the time seems to have come. I am much 
Anticipating from his stay, and I trust 
We may with each other some pleasant hours spend. 
Oh, would 'twas my darling instead of my friend I 
My " other John " ! Were that the case, though, I fear 
I should not so tranquilly write of it here. 



310 STOLEN WATEM8. 

But that never, ob, never can be ! One more year 

Of roy life is now gone. One year nearer are we 

To the meeting eternal. How joyful 'twill be ! 

I've been reading a book about heaven, of late, 

A beautiful thing, too ! And as it portrayed 

The reunion of friends, it occurred to me then. 

Though I oft think of meeting my love there, to spend 

A happy eternity with him, the thought 

That we may be in separate places has not 

Ever entered my soul. And when that suggests it, 

Does my mind for one moment a place there permit 

The thought to retain ? No ; with all of my heart 

I believe, that as here we are kept far apart. 

There we shall be united in all the sweet bonds 

Of friendship and love — love perfected and fond. 

I trust it to Jesus who died for us both ! 

And it is very sweet unto Ilim all to owe. 

And feel He's not only the power, but wish. 

This loved one of mine to bring safe into His 

Precious fold. And I pray God, through Him, that if none 

Of my morning and evening petitions shall come 

To His ear, and find gracious acceptance, save one, 

That my prayer for my love, from a full, penitent. 

And sometimes aching heart, may like fragrant incense 

Ascend even unto the foot of the Throne, 

And an answer in blessings on him shower down. 

God sees not as man sees ! And Christ, who has borne 

Our weak human nature, our weakness has known ; 

He uses mysterious means to work out 

His designs, and bring his wise purpose about. 

And may I not hope that what all the world might 

Think a serious error, at least, if not quite 



STOLEN WATEBS. 311 

A crime, may the means be of bringing to Christ 
One wandering lamb ? Oh ! how happy and glad 
'Twould make me, to think that my influence had, 
Under God, been the means of directing the feet 
Of one so beloved into paths that shall lead 
To the gates of the city eternal. God keep 
My darling through all of life's wild, stormy blasts, 
And bring us together with Him, safe at last ! 



August \Qth, 1868. 

SUNDAY. 

Since I last wrote the Colonel has been here, and gone, 
And I on my lips wear his troth-kiss, and on 
My finger his ring ! Am I happy in this 
New relation ? I scarcely can tell, I confess ! 
I like him very much, very much indeed ! More, 
I think, than I have any one heretofore, 
Excepting my love of the sweet olden time ; 
And I do not know as that passion of mine 
Interferes in the least with the strong, warm regard 
Which I now have for John. The place held in my heart 
By my old love 's peculiar and sacred to him ; 
No other can ever approa€h it. Within 
That chamber no footsteps may enter. The door 
Is fast, and my love holds the key. Nevermore 
Shall it open, 'till life's joys and sorrows are o'er. 
And yet, my attachment to John is, I think, 
Strong enough to make me unto him everything 



312 STOLEN WATEES, 

Tha t he may desire ; and he feels it is so. 

Our engagement is only conditional, though, 

And if either should think, in the future, 'twould be 

Best it should not be consummated, why we 

Are to make it known instantly. 

He was with me 
Scarcely more than a week. The first few days passed on 
Quite fleetly to us, in reviewing our long 
Correspondence so pleasant. But one day, he'd been 
In town since the morning, and, waiting for him. 
Just at twilight, was down in the parlors, and leaning 
My head on the mantel-piece, stood idly dreaming 
Of what — I indeed scarcely know ; but I must 
In my reverie have been absorbed very much, 
For I heard not his ring, nor his step in the hall, 
Nor the opening door — in fact, was not at all 
Aware of his presence, until some one's arms 
Were around me with passionate pressure and warm, 
And my head to a manly breast gently was drawn. 
Too surprised to be very indignant, I raised 
My eyes, and o'er me there was bending a face, 
"With a look in it only one passion can trace. 
I said nothing, but would have withdrawn from his clasp. 
But he held me the closer, his heart throbbing fast 
'Neath my cheek, which was resting against it, and said, 
" This, dear, is the best place for your weary head ! " 
Then rapidly, eloquently, he went on 
To tell me how dear to him I had been long ; 
How sad woiild his life be ^vithout me ; how strong 
His desire was to shield me from all of the storms 
Of life, which had hitherto visited me 
"With such roughness ; how kind, and how tender he'd be. 



STOLEN WATERS. 313 

And looking up into his true, honest eyes, 

I felt that in his hands my happiness I 

Could give, and the trust would be never betrayed ; 

And the answer he wished for I readily gave. 

In a year he will come for me, if before then 

Neither think it were better he should not. And when 

He bade me farewell, 'twas with tears of regret 

And sorrow I saw his departure. And yet, 

I thought of a parting but one year ago. 

And felt, for the first time, it could not be so — 

The conditional j)romise could never be kept. 

But that feeling soon passed, and I'm now quite content, 

And think that my life with him will be, indeed, 

A tranquil and happy existence, and lead 

My heart into safe, pleasant paths. And to-night, 

I thank God for His goodness, and pray that aright 

I may use my strong influence over the man 

Whose happiness now has been placed in my hands. 



October 10th, 1868. 

SATURDAY. 

Scarcely two months have sped, and already do I 
Beneath my bonds chafe. My heart already cries, 
That it never can be ! and beside me there lies 
A letter, signed, sealed, whose contents shall dissolve 
The engagement on which we so lately resolved ; 
And I wonder, now, how I could ever have felt 
That Z could the marriage vows take on myself, 
14 



314: STOLEN' WATEB8. 

And promise to love any other but liim 
Who must still be my dearest, as ever he's been. 
For John I've indeed the most sincere and true 
Attachment, and know well that he loves me, too. 
And yet, my heart shrinks from the intimacy 
Of married life, even with him. And think he 
Will feel, as I do, 'tis but justice and kindness, 
Thus early to sever the ties which now bind us. 
I suppose my decision will give him much pain. 
And so it does me ; for I, too, hoped, in vain. 
Together, a bright, happy future to spend. 
And it hurts me, indeed, to cause grief to my friend; 
Yet, I feel that it will be as nothing compared 
To a life-time of sorrow, the grief and despair 
Of within his arms holding a cold, loveless wife ; 
That the promise, if kept, could but make us for life 
Both wretched, indeed ! For one face ever must 
Between us have come, and thus, marring for us 
All happiness, rendered our fancied bliss naught 
But a mockery. Feeling thus, I, of course, thought 
It but right to tell 1117)1 without further delay ; 
And therefore I wrote him a letter to-day. 

'Tis best so ! Not sufficiently large is my heart 
To contain more than one love ; for every part 
Is filled to o'erflowing with that. I feel, too. 
That 'tis sweeter, far sweeter to love liirriy mj true, 
Only love, with no hope of again seeing him 
While life last^, with no thought of there ever being 
Between us one sweet, tender tie, than to be 
Wbrshi2y2^ed by any other. The merrCry to me, 



STOLEN WATERS. 315 

Of his love, is far more than the most warm, heartfelt, 

Passionate adoration of any one else. 

"With such feelings, I can't wrong a friend that's so dear, 

By a ruined heart giving to him, or a mere 

Pretence of affection. So sorry am I, 

So sorry y that he should have ever a tie 

Between us more close than warm friendship besought 

Or desired ; and so sorry, too, that I should not 

Seen at first that his hopes could be ne'er realized. 

Still, I trust that his love not so deeply does lie, 

That it is not so lasting and strong as he thinks ; 

That, before many years their swift flight shall have winged. 

He will find one more worthy of such a dear, kind 

Companion as he would be ; who, through all time. 

Every craving shall satisfy of his true, warm. 

Loving heart. And who shall not alone fill his arms, 

But his mind and his soul. 

Thus once more I become 
All my love's, with no thought but for him — my dear one I 



December 18t7i, 1868. 

FRIDAY. 

'Tis with saddest of sad hearts I sit down to write 
A few words in my journal's still pages to-night. 
Such sorrowful news as to-day I've received ! 
This morning a paper was handed to me. 
Addressed in my love's well-known hand. Oh, how lon^ 
It had been since I'd seen it before 1 What a strong 



316 STOLEN WATERS. 

Thrill fluttered my pulse as I recognized it ! 

Was so happy and glad about it, I admit 

That I never once thought it was strange he should break 

In that manner our long, cruel silence. With haste 

I tore off the wrapper, and looked, but in vain, 

Por a written word which should the sending explain. 

But when carelessly glancing its columns adown, 

I observed a marked paragraph, which I soon found 

A notice to be of the death of his wife. 

I scarcely more shocked have been, in my whole life ! 

How my heart aches for him ! How it has ached all day ! 

How grief stricken he must be ! Oh, would in some way 

I could give to him comfort. His dear children, too — 

His sweet little Bertie ! Oh, what will he do 

Without his own loving mamma. 'Tis, indeed, 

Very hard for them all. And it makes my heart bleed, 

When I think of how lonely they must be to-night. 

God, I pray, cheer their sad hearts ! 

Of fever she died, 
After scarce a week's illness. I can't realize 
It were possible that her fair face should lie now, 
WTiite and still, 'neath the snows of December. Oh, how 
Can he bear it ? — my darling ! 'Tis sad, oh, so sad — 
This most bitter trial he ever has had. 

I wrote him this evening a few lines of deep, 
Heartfelt sympathy ; feeling I never could sleep 
Until i had told him how truly I grieved 
At his sorrow. And wrote, with the earnest belief 
It was right that I should. Jesus pity and bless. 
And to his troubled spirit send cheer and sweet rest I 



STOLEN WATEBS. 317 



Decemher Z\st^ 1868. 

THURSDAY. 

The last day of the year ! I have been looking o'er 
The journal I've kept for six long years, or more ; 
And I could not help thinking that, were I to read 
The same in a book, I should think it, indeed, 
Over-drawn, and extravagant, too. Yet, God knows 
That I felt every word from beginning to close. 
Felt bitterly, sweetly, the fullest extent 
Of what was expressed. And a nature intense 
As mine is, could scarcely feel less, influenced 
By the same circumstances, I'm sure ! As I knew 
'Twould be no criticism subjected unto 
More severe than my own, I have freely expressed 
All my heart's bliss and pain, happiness and uni-est. 

The old year is dying ! The moments speed fast ! 
As they vanish away among things of the past, 
My thoughts backward roll to one bright afternoon, 
Just five years ago — five long years ! yet how soon 
Have they slipped from beneath our oft-faltering feet — 
When my heart the first time wildly throbbed 'neath the 

cheek 
Of one who's become since so dear ; when my lips 
Felt the pressure of his in his first tender kiss, 
And I eagerly tasted the first drops of bliss, 
In the goblet of love which his ready hand raised 
To my parched, thirsty lips. Oh, how sweet was the taste I 



318 STOLEN WATERS. 

Happy then in the present, so happy to see 

That I filled all his thoughts for the moment, that he 

Was all I had deemed him — a gentleman true. 

Not thinking, or caring indeed, then, this new, 

Sweet feeling to analyze, reckless of what 

The future might bring forth — in fact, with no thought 

That moment beyond, and delirious, too, 

With the joy of his presence, the glad moments flew 

But too swiftly, and brought our first parting. And then 

Succeeded the eve's dreamy retrospect, when 

I sat with my hand o'er my eyes tightly pressed, 

Recalling with pleasure each ofifered caress, 

With rapturous thrill every word of the man 

Who, in truth, even then, held my heart in his hand. 

And nobly has he used the power possessed. 

True, indeed, has he been to his trust. Kindest, best. 

Most generous ever. What wonder, above 

All others, I honor, admire him, and love ! 

What wonder that I joyous mention should make 

Of each of these glad anniversary days. 

As the untiring wheels of time roll them along ? 

What wonder that sweet recollection, with strong, 

Fond emotion, should linger around them, each year 

But rendering them indeed all the more dear ? 

Oh, blessed be memory ! " There is no time 

Like the old time, no love like the old love." I find. 

In the whole of my world, not a man who is like 

Unto my love ! God bless and preserve him to-night ! 



STOLEN WATERS. 319 

Decemher 3l5^, 1869. 

FRIDAY. 

" The day of all days " to me, my wedding day! 
It is now six p.m. ; in two hours I shall say, 
God willing, the words that forever will bind 
Me to him, my heart's idol, for such a long time, 
My own love and darling ! And sitting here, clad 
In my pure bridal robes, I am making the glad. 
Last record in my little journal, which has 
Been a brief one, indeed ; for since it was commenced 
I've no heart had for writing. But this blissful end 
Compensates for all of the pain gone before. 

'Tis a night of deep beauty ! I look without, o'er 
My shoulder, and see the full moon, large and bright, 
Shining calm and serene from the far East ; while light. 
Fleecy clouds hover near it and o'er it ; but do 
Not its brilliance obscure. But a dark one's there, too ; 
Sailing near, and yet nearer ; and if that should flit 
Over, will it not hide with completeness all its 
Matchless beauty and brilliance ? With interest deep 
I watch it move slowly along ; now it sweeps 
Over every part; but the radiance still 
Escapes, and the ether surrounding it gilds. 
In the cloud there are rifts, too, through which I its calm, 
Silvery beauty still see. Now it rises, with grand, 
Imperial triumph, above the dark and 
Most en\ious clouds shining forth once again, 
With its lustre undimmed, and its beauty unchanged. 



320 STOLEN WATERS. 

I turn from that picture, and look within ! There 
I find perfect happiness ! And, though aware 
That it by passing clouds may, and Tuust be, indeed, 
Temporarily dimmed, yet I trust there may be 
Kifts, through which I may still its bright radiance see. 
That they will soon pass, and its brilliancy leave 
Untarnished, unchanged ! 

This is my " Prologue " brief, 
To what I've to write. 

Just one week since, to-night, 
In the parlor I sat in the gathering twilight, 
Idly rocking and dreaming, with cheek in my hand, 
Of present and past, when the bell loudly rang. 
My position I still did not change, till the door 
Was thrown wide, and a gentleman, crossing the floor, 
Paused by me. I looked up, and with rapturous joy 
Pecognized at one glance my own love ! my dear boy. 
Who for more than two years I have never once seen. 
Oh, how glad was my heart ! How entire and supreme 
The delight with which once more I felt his dear arm 
Around me, his kiss on my lips, long and warm ! 
And how haj^py was he to again hold me thus ! 
Oh, that moment alone quite compensated us 
Por the anguish of parting, the longing, and grief 
Of the past two sad years. Neither of us could speak 
Por a while ; then he drew me with him to a seat, 
And as we sat down side by side, he to me 
Said tenderly, softly, and how wistfully — 
" I have\Come for you, dear, and I want you at once, 
Entirely, forever ! And nothing more must 
Ever separate us. And no longer can I 
Live apart from you ; every day want you in my 



STOLEN WATERS. 321 

Now desolate home, every hour in my heart. 
You are all mine ! my darling, my wife, are you not ? " 
I against the dear hand which I held laid my cheek, 
And looked up the dear eyes true and loving to meet, 
And the answer he wished in my face let him read. 
No words were required ; for too long had he known 
That my heart's every fibre for him throbbed alone. 
And as his lips met mine in the lingering kiss 
Of betrothal, I thought that no other caress 
"Was ever so sweet. 

Then he went on to tell. 
As the darkening shades swiftly gathered and fell. 
All that I'd for so long from his lips wished to hear. 
How much and how dearly he'd loved me for years ; 
How it had sometimes almost overcome him ; 
How hard to repress v/ords of love it had been, 
When they trembled on his very lips ; how with pain 
He'd allowed many letters of mine to remain 
Unanswered, from feeling he never could trust 
Himself to Veply ; and how bowed to the dust 
He was at our last bitter parting. 

How great. 
And exceeding the joy which all this to me gave ! 
And to Him who bestows upon us all good gifts, 
Hov thankful I felt that such full, perfect bliss. 
Was at length me accorded — my most ardent wish 
For long years, and the very desire of my heart. 
And not what I wished for alone, He imparts — 
The boon of his love — but He grants me, beside, 
What I never dared think of, the privilege, right, 
The remainder of life with my dear one to spend. 
14* 



322 STOLEN WATERS. 

That was one week ago ! Every evening since tiien 
He's been with me ; and we're to be married to-night I 
He thought we had been kept apart too long, quite, 
To delay any more, and would give me but one 
More brief week of freedom. Nor did I, I own, 
Desire it. These chains ai'e of silk, do not fret, 
And bondage to liim is, I think, sweeter yet 
Than the most entire liberty. 

What a soft light 
Filled his eyes all the eve ! And my thoughts then took 

flight 
To those beautiful Sabbaths six years ago, when 
We both sat in church, and he down to me sent 
Such sweet, thrilling glances — like, but not the same. 
And he loves tne ! My heart the sweet music again 
And again doth repeat. I am his, he is mine. 
His heart warmly beats for me, mine through all time 
Throbs for him truly, tenderly. Friends here we are. 
Friends we shall be in heaven ; loving here, loving far 
Through the endless eternity. He will soon come 
To leave me not 'till tbe words makinsc us one — 
As we've long been in heart — shall be spoken. That voice 
So exquisite I once more shall hear ; meet tlie eyes 
Whose glance is so loving and true ; feel the warm, 
Thrilling clasp of his hand, the embrace of his arm, 
The touch so caressing of his bearded cheek. 
And the pressure of his mustached lips, as they meet 
My own in the sweetest of kisses. And this 
Is not '^stolen waters," but God-given bliss ! 
And how can any person, who ever a kiss 
Of love has received, think of yielding their lips 



STOLEN WATERS. 323 

To passion's profane touch, formality's cold, 

Or friendship's indifferent pressure. I own 

7" cannot. And from any one's kisses I shrink 

When he's left a caress on my lips. For I think 

A kiss sacred and very expressive, and it 

Should be neither profaned nor abused. I admit 

I like kisses, but not a profusion, or those 

That are cold and indifferent. Though I suppose 

My ideas are somewhat peculiar — in fact, 

Have been told so — I'd not have thenrchan^d. And am 

glad ■' • -^ 

He the luxury uses so rarely, indeed, 
That 'tis not rendered common. Am glad, too, that he 
Is reserved ; that he's not prodigal in professing 
Attachment to me ; is not free in expressing 
His strong, full affection. 

I love him, he me ! 
I with my whole heart, my might, mind, strength ; and he 
As I wish to be loved. And how thankful I am, 
Every day, every hour of my life, that the man 
On whom I have lavished the first, only love 
Of which I am capable, who has above 
All others for long been enshrined in my heart's 
Sweet " holy of holies," who, " be the days dark 
Or bright," must abide there forever, is one 
That is v/orthy of all ; a rare man, who's become 
More honored and trusted each time we have met. 
With whom a familiar acquaintance, instead 
Of breaking the charm, or of weakening the depth 
Of my passion 's enhanced it a thousand fold, swept 
Aside every barrier, rendered it yet 



324 STOLEN WATERS. 

More strong, deep, enduring, and shown him to me 
The one love of my life — a man, manly — to be 
My own, here and hereafter. 

The name that I chose, 
"When I sent my first note to him so long ago. 
How pertinent 'twas ! " bitter-sweet ! " Seems almost 
Prophetic. Impulsively chosen, no thought 
Except for the present, no glance into what 
Was then dim futurity, no care, indeed, 
For what fruit might grow from the rashly sown seed. 
A very child was I, dependent on each 
Passing moment for happiness; joyous or grieved. 
Glad or sorry, as by influences around 
I was swayed. Not reflecting once, as to the wrong 
Or right of the step I was taking, and not 
One thought of with what results it might be fraught. 
By the sweet, witching glances of his soft, dark eye 
Fascinated, bewildered by the sweet, dreamy smile, 
"Which not alone wreathed his lips, dimpled his cheek, 
But gave added beauty and softness to each 
Fine feature of his speaking face ; and to him, 
Looking up, as unto a superior being ; 
List'ning week after week to the magic of his 
Lovely voice, he a spell far too strong to resist. 
Too gradual, subtle, bewilderingly sweet, 
"Wove around me, which deeper grew each passing week, 
'Till, reckless of consequences, secure in 
My disguise, longing passionately for something 
Tangible, in connection with him — a line traced 
By his hand, or the paper where it had been placed, 
Something, anything, which was or had been his own — 
I sent my first letter, and, as has been shown, 



STOLEN WATER8. 325 

Prophetically chose as my disguise 

The name " JBitter- Sweety Six long years have passed by, 

And a few days ago I another one sent, 

In the same manner signed. But I wrote to him then 

As unto a stranger, unknown to him quite. 

But now as my darling, my love, my delight ! 

What was then a dream only has long since become 

A blessed reality ; and, more than once 

I've experienced what I then longed for, the press 

Of his arm around me, of my head to his breast. 

fitter- Sweet ! bitter has been indeed that note's fruit ; 
Sweet, intensely sweet, also ! The plant's language, too, 
Which I carelessly then as an emblem chose — truth — 
Has run through the whole of our lives' warp and woof, 
Since we ceased to be strangers. I liave been, I feel, 
To him faithful, and he is, I know, true as steel. 
The sweet's been predominant ; and, though 'tis plain 
The bitter has also been present, it came 
At the first, as the name indicates ; and the sweet 
Followed swiftly, is thorough, and lasting, and deep. 

Just six years to-day, since we met the first time ! 
And to-night God will make me all his, him all mine. 
It is now half-past seven ! A few moments more, 
And he will be here. And though I've lingered o'er 
This hour's pleasant task, I must leave it and haste 
To my " Epilogue." 

Love is the " Alpha " I trace. 
The " Omega" is joy. I've for once known the taste 
Of the rare, ruby wine of entire happiness ! 
Something seldom attained, scarcely known when possessed. 



326 STOLEN WATERS. 

Every burden is liglitened, each cloud is dispelled ; 

Every sorrow is banished, all gloom is expelled, 

By the bright influence of the rosy contents 

Of that magic goblet. Whatever is meant 

For me in the future, I then can look back 

To these moments so joyous and glad, thinking that 

Once, at least, have my heart-strings been swept by the 

hand 
Of true happiness ; and strains of music, both grand 
And sweet, his magnetic touch followed. Soft strains 
Which vibrated and echoed, until they became 
All lost in my joy's deep immensity. 

Then, 
'' What matters some sorrow, if blissful 's the end ? " 

The voice of my love I and I think, as with fleet, 
Eager footsteps, I hasten my dear one to meet, 
That " the bitter all past, far more welcome 's the sweet I '* 



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